


Paris Birthday

by Celticgal1041



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-04 10:49:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11553645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celticgal1041/pseuds/Celticgal1041
Summary: “This isn’t exactly how I’d envisioned a Paris birthday,” d’Artagnan admitted as he tiredly shook his head.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a virtual birthday present for Runner043, who provided the list of prompts that guided this story. I've done my best to incorporate all of them and will include the list at the end of the last chapter. Hope you're having a wonderful birthday, my friend, and I hope you enjoy your story!
> 
> This story takes place in season 1, before d'Artagnan is a commissioned Musketeer. New chapters will be posted on Wednesdays and Sundays due to real life wanting far too much of my time. Enjoy!

He held the cup to Milady's lips, once again marvelling at the wonder she'd introduced him to – a straw. Who knew such a thing even existed? d'Artagnan could recall numerous times when it would have been useful to have. For such a simple item, it was still rare and relatively expensive, explaining why it wasn't a common item and available everywhere. His gaze settled on it as Milady drank, wondering if he could take the straw with him and reuse it.

"d'Artagnan?" Milady's voice was a bit breathless as she reclined against the fluffy pillows behind her head. The fall she'd taken from her horse had painted her temple in dark bruising that seemed out of place on her perfect, alabaster skin. The woman herself had been brave in the face of her injury, doing what she could to carry her own weight, but it was clear that the knock she'd taken had addled her senses, leaving her with a sharp aching in her skull that was, so far, refusing to abate.

d'Artagnan shook himself from his thoughts, realizing that he'd let his attention drift as he'd contemplated the wonder of the simple straw. His mind was somewhat fuzzy as well, something he blamed on his lack of sleep the previous night because he'd stayed by Milady's side to tend to her. "Hmm, sorry," he said contritely, a shy smile appearing as his focus returned to his charge.

Milady's smile was just as charming as always, barely dulled by the pain of her injury, and d'Artagnan found himself drawn to her once more. "I was just saying thank you for taking such good care of me," she replied. d'Artagnan ducked his head for a moment, uncomfortable with his patient's praise. "Perhaps you could find us something for breakfast?" Milady suggested, and d'Artagnan nodded at once.

"Of course," he replied, already rising from his spot at her hip. "Are you sure you'll be alright while I'm gone?"

The sweet smile reappeared on the woman's face, and d'Artagnan took the nonverbal response as his cue to leave. As soon as the Gascon had exited, gently closing the door behind him, Milady's expression turned to frustration, her left arm coming up to rest across her eyes. The previous day had been a shambles, and her plan to innocently seduce the budding Musketeer again had turned into chaos.

They'd been riding outside of Paris, Milady having convinced the naïve young man that she knew of a secluded spot just outside the city gates, when they'd been set upon by four men who were eager to fill their purses with the contents of hers. She'd been seated sideways on her borrowed horse, having had no time to arrange for a carriage when she'd unexpectedly bumped into him and concocted her plan. The result was that she was ill-suited to be riding in her fine dress, and more than a little helpless when it came to trying to defend herself.

d'Artagnan had acted true to his nature, gallantly pushing her out of the way of a pistol that had swung in her direction, only to have her unbalance and fall to the ground. Given the unexpected action, she'd been lucky to suffer nothing worse than a bump to the head. Sadly, it had been enough to leave her lying on the ground in a daze while the Gascon dealt with the robbers. She had little memory of the actual fight, recalling only glimpses and snatches of images as men moved around her, swords clanging as they met.

When d'Artagnan had knelt at her side to check on her, she'd realized that the bandits had all run off, presumably to lick their wounds in private after their embarrassing defeat by a lone man. Milady had privately snickered to herself at that; despite the young man's age and inexperience, he was a fearsome warrior when someone he cared about was threatened.

He'd carefully raised her to her feet, the ground shifting alarmingly and making it difficult to remain upright. Again, d'Artagnan was there, holding her close with an arm wrapped around her waist, the action both intimate and comforting, and she'd found herself leaning into his embrace. He'd willingly stood there while she regained her equilibrium, before lifting her onto the back of his steed, hers having run off in fear when one of the robbers had discharged his pistol. This time, he'd walked, leading the horse slowly back towards the city, while keeping a careful eye out for any further signs of danger.

They hadn't gone very far, the knock to the head making Milady queasy and lightheaded, and she'd found herself begging her companion to simply find a room where they could spend the night. That her ploy would also allow her to get the young man alone didn't escape her, even in her somewhat befuddled state.

That night, d'Artagnan had been the perfect gentleman, much to Milady's chagrin. Rather than falling for her numerous charms, the Gascon was attentive, patient, and caring, almost to a fault. He'd wiped away the dirt on her hands and face from her fall, loosened the fastenings on her dress and corset, and even turned his back when she'd undressed to get into bed, leaving her in nothing but her undergarments. It had made her want to scream.

Instead, she'd continued in her role of helpless patient, allowing d'Artagnan to fuss over her and assuage some of his guilt. She'd seen it in his expression every time she'd caught his gaze, and filed the information away to hopefully use at some later date.

Throughout the night he'd refused to leave, so she'd eventually given in to fatigue, allowing her eyes to close and sleeping deeply. His foray downstairs to get breakfast was the first opportunity she'd had to be alone with her thoughts since they'd arrived. She now racked her aching brain to find some way to salvage the situation, and gain some minor advantage from the many hours she'd lost.

Her ruminations were interrupted when the door opened, d'Artagnan following it into the room. His hands were full so he pushed the door closed behind him with a booted foot, before placing the items he'd brought on the table. "Let me help you sit up so you can eat," he said, already moving to gently pull her forward and adjusting the pillows at her back.

Milady smiled at his consideration, although secretly hating how she was being treated. She watched as he moved to pour some liquid into a glass he'd brought, and scoop up a plate that was covered by a square piece of linen. Handing her the glass, he removed the cloth from the food it hid, revealing two pieces of fresh bread along with a small pot of honey. "Whenever I was ill, my mother would tempt me with a sweet treat to help my flagging appetite. I hoped it might be the same for you."

The sentiment was truly considerate, and Milady found herself reaching for a slice of bread and topping it with honey without thought. After biting off a piece and humming contentedly at the flavour, she said, "You've never really spoken much of your family."

d'Artagnan's expression shuttered, and she realized that perhaps she'd made an error by asking. Adopting a contrite look, she attempted to salvage the situation. "I'm sorry, d'Artagnan. Clearly this is a sensitive topic for you. Please, forget I asked."

He graced her with one of his boyish smiles, this one tinged with sadness as he countered. "No, it's alright. It's just that my mother died when I was young, and you already know that my father was killed only a few months ago. I have no one else."

Reaching out to clasp his hand, she disagreed. "That's not true. You have your friends in the regiment, and you have me." The last words were spoken with a meaningful look that made the young man blush. Sensing the shift in the room, Milady changed tact. "And what of the merchant's wife? Has she not been kind to you?"

d'Artagnan's response solidified her belief that the Bonacieux woman was in fact very important, and she adopted a neutral expression as the Gascon began to speak. "Constance has been very kind – perhaps too kind. I haven't had much income from my farm, and she's generously allowed me to stay even though I'm several months behind on my rent." Hesitating for a moment, he went on. "I don't think Monsieur Bonacieux likes me very much."

Milady tutted softly. "Surely that's not the case."

If possible, d'Artagnan looked even more miserable as he replied. "I don't think he was ever fond of having me as a boarder, but recently it's gotten worse. I don't think it's helping any that I can't pay my rent, and he's becoming quite forceful about getting his money."

Milady resisted raising an eyebrow at the information the Gascon had shared. "Perhaps you're not the only one with money troubles?"

d'Artagnan's eyes widened in surprise at his companion's perceptiveness. It was true that the Bonacieux household had recently fallen on difficult times, though Constance refused to reveal the full extent of their hardship. He knew that she had intentionally withheld some of the details to prevent him from feeling guilty about his contribution – or lack thereof – to their current circumstances. For d'Artagnan, it was enough to know that he wasn't helping them with his continued inability to pay, and the heavy weight of it was obvious in the tense lines of his shoulders and back.

His father had been a proud man, and had instilled in his son a strong work ethic coupled with a streak of honor as wide as the Seine. It demanded that he pay his own way and find some way to compensate his landlords for everything they'd given him – the only challenge was to figure out how. The lack of income from his farm had initially confused him, the feeling soon morphing to worry, and then finally to fear as he wondered how long Bonacieux would allow him to remain under his roof. While the amount he'd been receiving didn't allow for an elaborate existence, it would have been enough to tide him over during the long months in Paris as he trained to become a Musketeer.

A slender finger beneath his chin pulled d'Artagnan's focus back to the present. He found his head gently titled upwards and a pair of green eyes staring back at him. Milady wore a somewhat amused expression as she asked, "Are you back with me now?"

d'Artagnan flashed her a smile that was a mix of embarrassment and apology as he nodded in reply. "Sorry, wool gathering." Clearing his throat, he said, "Would you like some time to attend to your morning routine before we leave?"

She carefully considered the offer for a moment, weighing the benefits of a bath against her desire to return to the centre of the city. "A few minutes at most," she replied, deciding that she could get by with only a splash of water on her face and neck, and a quick use of the chamber pot.

d'Artagnan took that as his cue to leave, collecting the used dishes and retreating with them to allow Milady some privacy. As soon as she was alone, she sighed, her mind once again considering her next move with the young man. In the end, a solution to her situation refused to come as her brain protested its continued use. Resigning herself to the fact that her plans would need to be delayed to another day, she finished dressing and exited the room.

She startled for a moment when she found d'Artagnan waiting for her just outside the door. Recovering quickly, she conjured a smile and offered her hand, which he quickly took and guided to the crook of his elbow. Ignoring the rush of warmth and safety that was sparked by the Gascon's touch, she allowed herself to be led outside and helped up onto d'Artagnan's horse, the Gascon mounting afterwards and seating himself at her back.

For once, she let her personal needs override her more nefarious objectives, relishing the feeling of the young man's arms around her waist and leaning against his chest, letting her cheek to rest against his doublet. It was a few moments of vulnerability, but she smiled when her actions prompted d'Artagnan to cover one of her hands with his own as he slowly guided them away from the inn.

Milady allowed her thoughts to drift as they travelled, lulled by the warm body behind her and the gentle cadence of the horse beneath her. If she'd allowed herself to relax more fully, she was certain that she would have fallen asleep. Instead, she let her mind wander, thinking about everything and nothing at the same time. She was startled from those thoughts as the strong torso beneath her cheek suddenly tensed and straightened, pulling her from her musings and prompting her to see what had garnered the young man's attention.

Letting her eyes drift across the street ahead of them left her just as confused as the moments before. She glanced at d'Artagnan instead, noting the direction of his gaze and following it with her own. There, nearly hidden by a merchant's cart was Madame Bonacieux. Milady bit back the caustic remark that immediately flew to her lips, irritation rising at once at the lack of attention now being paid to her.

She kept her eyes fixed on the cloth merchant's wife, her mind already racing to dredge up the words that would prompt d'Artagnan to continue on without risking the possibility of alienating him. That train of thought ended abruptly as the high-pitched cry of a woman's voice reached her ears, though it took her several seconds to realize the sound came from the Bonacieux woman.

Before she could process what was happening, d'Artagnan had swung his leg over his mount's back, sliding neatly from the horse. A moment later, he was pressing the reins into her hands. "Stay here; I'll be right back." With that, he swiftly turned and headed towards his landlord's wife, Milady groaning silently to herself at this latest unfortunate turn of events.

To be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He reached out a hand to catch his arm, only to find himself suddenly on the ground, watching the spinning sky above him as he tried to understand what had just happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the wonderful response to this story. Hope you enjoy this next part!

The ride back into the heart of the city had been a peaceful one, and d’Artagnan had felt calm and relaxed despite the events of the prior day. When Milady had leaned back against him, he’d clasped her hands in his, relishing the warmth and comfort her closeness provided. His feelings for her were a confusing mix of attraction and apprehension, and their relationship thus far had reflected those emotions in an odd dance of push and pull as they seemed drawn to one another, only to be repulsed later on. It made his head hurt if he thought on it too long and hard, and he’d finally resigned himself to simply enjoy the feeling of her lounging against his chest as they rode.

 

His peaceful state was interrupted as he caught sight of Constance ahead, her face creased with worry and her body taut with unspoken fear. Instinctively, he straightened at once in reaction to her unspoken signal that danger was imminent. At his front, Milady followed suit, but his mind was only barely aware of his passenger, while he focused intensely on the scene unfolding before him.

 

Constance wasn’t alone, and it was clear that the large man in front of her was the reason for her strained countenance. d’Artagnan was torn, uncertain about whether he should intervene or simply pass by, since it was possible that his interference would be unwelcome. When Constance cried out, the Gascon’s mind was made up, and before conscious thought could assert itself, he’d already dismounted and pressed the horse’s reins into Milady’s hands.

 

He covered the distance between himself and Constance quickly, his eyes darting to meet hers before meeting those of the man she was with. Her companion was indeed large, his broad shoulders easily twice the width of d’Artagnan’s slighter frame. His face was hard and spoke of years of fights, a scar running the length of one cheek and alongside a nose that had been broken more than once.

 

Standing tall, and positioning himself slightly in front of his landlady, d’Artagnan addressed the man. “Monsieur, what is your business with this woman?” At his back, he could sense Constance stiffening, but he kept his attention front and centre.

 

The man’s features turned even harsher as he steadfastly glared at the person who’d neatly inserted himself into a private conversation. About to say exactly that, he was stopped as Constance put a restraining hand on the young man’s arm, speaking lowly, but still loudly enough that both men could hear her words. “d’Artagnan, don’t; this is none of your business.”

 

The Gascon couldn’t help but turn in surprise at her words, hastily taking a step back so that he could still keep an eye on the other man while he spoke with Bonacieux. “Constance,” he replied softly, his tone holding a hint of warning in it. “I just want to make sure you’re alright.” He fell silent as he waited for an answer, his focus back on the giant for several seconds. When nothing was forthcoming, he shifted his gaze to her, settling on her annoyed expression. “Are you?” he asked more meekly. “Alright, that is?”

 

“I’m fine,” she answered, although he could still detect a slight tremble in her voice that belied her words. Infusing her next statement with greater strength to make it more believable, she went on. “And as I stated earlier, this is none of your business.”

 

d’Artagnan wavered with uncertainty, his instincts telling him that something was amiss, despite Constance’s assertions. He stared hard at her, trying to see the truth in her eyes, but all he could see was determination in the set of her mouth and shoulders. Still, he could not dismiss the feeling that something was wrong, regardless of the fact that he couldn’t pinpoint what exactly was troubling him. Before he could voice his concerns, another person interrupted his thoughts.

 

d’Artagnan’s head snapped to the newcomer, this one much smaller than his companion and wearing a large smile on his face. “Madame Bonacieux is correct Monsieur…” He paused, waiting for the Gascon to offer his name, and shrugging slightly when none was forthcoming. “This is a private business matter, and we were just concluding our conversation.” He looked meaningfully at Constance until she nodded in agreement, d’Artagnan watching the exchange with suspicion.

 

“Now, as we’d been discussing, you’ll bring full payment with you tomorrow, and our business will be concluded,” the man continued, receiving another, albeit more reluctant nod from Constance. “Excellent,” he responded, about to turn away and then pausing as though he’d changed his mind. “But, leave your friend at home.” The words were spoken in a less than friendly tone that had d’Artagnan’s hackles rising, but the man was already turning to walk away. Wanting to give the man a warning of his own, he reached out a hand to catch his arm, only to find himself suddenly on the ground, watching the spinning sky above him as he tried to understand what had just happened.

 

“Oh, d’Artagnan, why didn’t you listen when I told you this wasn’t your concern?” Constance asked as she wiped at the young man’s face. “Broussard is not a man to be trifled with.”

 

Still stunned, the Gascon did his best to process her words, finally mumbling a reply. “What?” Bonacieux’s face took on a sterner expression as she wiped at his face once more, d’Artagnan managing to catch her wrist as his mind began to clear. Holding on to her appendage and pulling it away from his face, he tried to focus on her hand as he asked, “What’re you doing?”

 

She pulled her arm from his grasp as she huffed in irritation. “I was trying to wipe some of the blood off your face. You can’t exactly go traipsing through Paris looking like that.”

 

d’Artagnan’s brow furrowed in confusion as Constance’s words ignited the ache in his cheek and lip. Gingerly, he pressed two fingers against his mouth, pulling them back to find them red with blood. Slowly, his thoughts coalesced as he asked incredulously, “He hit me?”

 

“Yes,” Constance replied as she rose, dragging him up with her. When it was obvious that he wouldn’t fall over, she released her hold on his arm, smoothing her skirts down in an effort to push the wrinkles from the fabric.

 

She was about to turn away when d’Artagnan’s hand on her arm stopped her. For several long moments, she refused to look at him, but the Gascon needed to understand what was going on and he refused to be put off. As though coming to that same realization, she let out a long sigh, her shoulders drooping as she finally met his eyes. “Really, it’s nothing for you to concern yourself with.” Her voice was much softer now than before and held a hint of pleading that d’Artagnan was unaccustomed to hearing from her.

 

Softening his tone in response, he said, “Constance, if you’re in any sort of trouble, then I want to help.” She worried her lower lip for several seconds and he guessed that she was beginning to falter. “Please, tell me what’s going on. Who were those men and what business do you have with them?”

 

With a look of defeat clouding her face, Constance took the Gascon’s hand, guiding him back towards the building that overlooked the street. “I’ll tell you, but you have to promise me that you won’t interfere.” She locked gazes with him and waited until he dipped his chin in acquiescence. “Finances have been _tight_ at home, and I needed to arrange a small loan to tide us over. This conversation was simply to discuss the terms of my repayment.”

 

d’Artagnan stared at her for nearly a minute, his mind digesting what he’d been told and not liking the conclusions he’d drawn. Constance fidgeted under his gaze, wishing the young man had never stumbled upon them and discovered her situation. Finally, he replied, “You borrowed money from that man?”

 

Tremulously, Constance nodded, already preparing to voice her defense. “What choice did I have? It’s not like everyone is in a hurry to lend money, and even fewer of them are willing to deal with a woman. It’s easy for you, being a man, but I had fewer options and had no choice…” Her rambling came to an abrupt halt as d’Artagnan pressed his finger against her lips, his gaze once more locking onto hers.

 

“Constance,” he began, staring intently into her eyes. “ _Can_ you repay your loan?”

 

She held his gaze unflinchingly for several seconds before dropping her eyes, her head shaking in reply as she breathed out a single word. “No.”

 

He was about to pull her into his arms to comfort her when Milady arrived at his side, loudly announcing her presence. “d’Artagnan, are you about done here?”

 

The Gascon dropped his hands from Constance’s arms as she straightened and lifted her head, her look of shock at Milady’s presence vanishing quickly and replaced by a look of polite disinterest. d’Artagnan looked between the two women, feeling the tension in the air, and finding himself torn between his conflicting sense of responsibility to both of them.

 

As though sensing his discomfort, Constance replied on his behalf. “Yes, quite finished,” she said, intentionally addressing Milady. Turning her attention to d’Artagnan, she went on. “Thank you for your assistance. It was quite unnecessary, but I appreciate your intent.” Gathering up her skirts in one hand, she graced Milady with a polite smile and then moved away, the growing crowd swallowing her quickly.

 

Placing a hand gently on his arm, Milady opined, “Well, these two days have held more than enough adventure for me.” She took a moment to carefully examine his reddened cheek and split lip. d’Artagnan flashed her a look that easily telegraphed his disbelief, and she had the grace to flush mildly. “Regardless, it’s high time for me to be home so I can change out of these clothes.” Pinning the Gascon with a flirtatious smile, she asked, “Care to join me?”

 

It was d’Artagnan’s turn to look embarrassed, and he grasped her hand awkwardly as he led her back to his horse, wordlessly mounting before helping her do the same. Milady broke the uneasy silence that had fallen. “That was your landlady, the draper’s wife?” The Gascon grunted in acknowledgement as he continued to weave the horse through the crowded street. “Seemed like she was in a spot of trouble.”

 

d’Artagnan bit his lip, certain that Constance wouldn’t appreciate him sharing her difficulties with a stranger, while Milady allowed the quiet to stretch. Several minutes passed before he answered, causing his passenger to smile smugly in triumph. “They’re experiencing some financial troubles,” he bit out, feeling like he might choke on the words as he privately considered his contribution to the situation. Without conscious thought, he continued speaking, putting voice to the concerns that filled his head. “If only I’d been able to pay my rent on time, this could have all been avoided.”

 

Smirking to herself, Milady took advantage of the young man’s guilt. “I suppose having a third mouth to feed would put a strain on even the best-managed households.”

 

The Gascon closed his eyes at his companion’s words, not even having considered the many meals that Constance had pressed on him during the time he’d been under her roof. That fact made it even clearer that he bore a large part of the fault for the Bonacieux’s current situation, and he would have to find some way to help them.

 

As if reading his mind, Milady lamented in a sad tone, “If only there were some way you could help.”

 

d’Artagnan winced at her words, but didn’t comment, and they completed the remainder of their ride in silence. When they arrived at the lady’s lodgings, he once more dismounted first before helping her down. He was so distracted that he almost missed what she said and did next. “Thank you for everything, d’Artagnan. It was not how I’d envisioned our time together, but I’m grateful for all of your assistance.”

 

The Gascon nodded and was already turning away when Milady continued. “Please, take this as a token of my gratitude.” d’Artagnan blinked hard as he focused on the item in her outstretched hand. In her open palm lay an delicate gold hairpin, it’s one end adorned with several small, colorful stones. His fingers itched to grab it as his mind comprehended the value of the gift being offered to him. Even at first glance, he was certain that it could buy Constance out of her debt. But still, he hesitated, unwilling to replace his debt to Bonacieux with one to Milady.

 

Sensing his reluctance, the lady leaned forward, reaching her hand into the folds of his doublet to tuck the hairpin inside. “It is a gift, d’Artagnan, and I expect nothing in return.” With that, she placed a chaste kiss on his cheek and moved away with a flourish of her skirts, leaving the Gascon to wonder in dumbfounded amazement at how his luck had turned. With a grin on his face, he pulled himself into the saddle, excited to see Constance that night so he could share with her his good fortune.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Stop,” he protested, sluggishly bringing a hand up to his face, only to have it caught in another’s and pulled away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who continues to follow along with this tale. I hope you enjoy this next part!

The three Inseparables stood before Treville, awaiting their orders. That they were lacking their fourth was somewhat strange, but not enough to for any of them to dwell on the matter. d’Artagnan spent most of his days training with the three, but he wasn’t a Musketeer, or even a formal recruit, allowing him more latitude with his time. If he chose to spend it in some other fashion, that was his choice.

 

“You’ll be apprehending a money-lender by the name of Broussard,” Treville stated, his gaze resting on his lieutenant. Immediately, he saw Athos’ brow lift, questioning the order.

 

Porthos wasn’t as subtle as the older man, and voiced the question had sprung to mind for all of them. “Why us? Isn’t that a matter for the Red Guard?”

 

Treville nodded, unsurprised that he was being challenged by these three. “Normally, yes, but it seems that some of the Red Guard have also been customers of Monsieur Broussard. As a result, previous attempts to apprehend him have been _unsuccessful_.” Porthos snorted inelegantly at the comment while Aramis smiled knowingly. Protection from those guarding the city and enforcing its laws would be considerable leverage when negotiating the repayment of loans.

 

“He’s been known to frequent the Rue de l'Echelle, making it easy for new and current customers to find him,” the Captain went on. “Once you’ve apprehended him, there’s a cell waiting at the Chatelet.”

 

Aramis hesitated for the first time since they’d entered their commander’s office. “Shouldn’t we wait for d’Artagnan to join us?” He glanced at his companions, assessing their expressions to find his answer.

 

Before either man could respond, Treville interjected, his face a mix of amusement and admiration for the skills of the men before him. “I’m certain that this will be an easy mission for three of the King’s finest.” Athos met his Captain’s bright blue eyes, giving a minor tilt of his chin in agreement.

 

Aramis’ expression suggested he’d still prefer to wait for the Gascon, but orders were orders, and there really was no valid reason for them to wait for someone who might not even show up at the garrison that day. With that conclusion, he gave a small nod, which satisfied Treville.

 

“Good. Report back to me when it’s done.” The men filed out at the tacit dismissal, gathering at the railing outside of Treville’s office.

 

The Rue de l'Echelle was within walking distance, but the additional trek to the Chatelet, and then back to the garrison, would make their day unnecessarily long. As though reaching the same conclusion at the same time, they were in motion seconds later, this time heading for the stables to retrieve their horses.

 

As Treville had indicated, Broussard frequented the Rue de l'Echelle. Despite the number of people that either lingered or simply passed through the area, their target was relatively simple to find – at least that was the case with Porthos at their sides.

 

“There ‘e his,” the large Musketeer indicated with a tilt of his head. Athos and Aramis subtly shifted their gazes, letting them settle on a smallish man dressed in a dark brown doublet, which covered an off-white shirt and tan breeches. The man looked unremarkable at first glance, but for the hat on his head, the crown of which was adorned with several colorful peacock feathers.

 

Keeping his eyes on the man, Athos asked lowly, “How can you be certain?”

 

Fully aware that the older man was simply looking for confirmation before they acted, Porthos replied. “Check about six feet to his left. That’s Bernier, his enforcer. Made a name for ‘imself years ago in the Court.”

 

“Mon Dieu! That’s a bear, not a man,” Aramis proclaimed as he took in Bernier’s size.

 

Porthos chuckled as he said, “He’s big, but it’s his head you have to watch out for. He proved early on that he’s got brains and knows how to use ‘em.”

 

“Will he cause trouble?” Athos queried, now contemplating how they would arrest their target if his protector intervened.

 

Porthos was already shaking his head. “Don’t think so. His allegiance has always been to his bosses’ purses, and I think he’ll scamper right quick once we identify ourselves.”

 

“Only one way to find out,” Athos said as he swung down from his saddle, leaving the reins lying across his horse’s neck and trusting that the well-trained animal would wait for him. Porthos was already following suit, while Aramis let out a sigh before doing the same, praying that the giant man would stay out of the coming conversation.

 

They managed to get within ten feet of the money-lender before the man noticed them, despite the fact that they’d spread out to be less conspicuous. As their gazes locked, Athos called out to the man, needing to confirm his identity. “Monsieur Broussard?”

 

Their target began edging towards his enforcer, eyes already darting to Porthos and then Aramis and deciding that he was in danger. “Bernier,” he called out to his man, and the giant responded by taking a protective stance in front of his employer.

 

“Monsieur Broussard, you are under arrest by order of the King,” Athos said, muscles tensed in anticipation of the criminals’ reactions. He didn’t have to wait long as the money-lender shot out from behind his enforcer in a bid to escape. At the same time, Bernier took a menacing step forward, prompting the Musketeers to spring forward as well.

 

Athos and Porthos both darted around the giant to chase after Broussard, while Aramis found himself face-to-face with the large man. Reaching down to pull his pistol, his hand had barely brushed the stock when he found himself flying through the air. His flight was short, and ended abruptly as he collided with the sturdy wall of a building. His head struck a moment after his shoulder, and the force of it was enough to have him sliding limply down the wall to the dirty street.

 

He fought hard against the spots blackening his vision, but in the end, he must have succumbed for at least a few seconds. His next conscious thought was of Porthos staring at him worriedly, and he blinked heavily at the concern darkening his friend’s eyes. “Are you back with me now?” the large man asked.

 

Aramis’ heavy eyelids closed and opened slowly once more before he found the wherewithal to answer. “No fui a ninguna parte,” he slurred, somewhat surprised at how difficult it had been for him to form the words.

 

Porthos’ brow furrowed deeply as his concern spiked. “What did you say?”

 

Aramis licked his dry lips as he gathered the strength to repeat himself. “Didn’t go anywhere,” he managed. Another glance at Porthos’ face showed that his friend was less than impressed, and he tiredly allowed his lids to close once more, snapping them open again when pain flared at his temple. “Stop,” he protested, sluggishly bringing a hand up to his face, only to have it caught in another’s and pulled away.

 

“Stop that, Aramis,” his friend scolded without heat. Patting his pockets for a moment, Porthos withdrew his scarf from his doublet, folding it carefully before pressing it to the wound on his friend’s head.

 

Aramis winced at the sting of pain and Porthos gave him a contrite expression. Deciding to distract his friend from his guilt at causing him pain, the marksman asked, “Is there much blood?”

 

The large man lifted an edge of the kerchief to look underneath before replying. “Nah, it’s already slowin’. Might need a stitch or two, though.” Aramis groaned in response, brining a grin to Porthos’ face. “Here,” he said, guiding the marksman’s hand to his temple. “Hold that. You ready to get up?”

 

He wasn’t, but knew that waiting was unlikely to make things any better, so he wordlessly extended his free hand to Porthos who carefully and slowly lifted him to his feet. Aramis was pleased when the world stayed still beneath his feet, giving his friend a smile as he said, “I’m good.”

 

Porthos released him as Athos spoke. “I’m glad to hear that, because we have a prisoner to deliver to the Chatelet.” In the confusion, Aramis had forgotten about Broussard who now stood next to the older man’s horse, his wrists tied by a length of rope which ended in the Musketeer’s hands.

 

“You caught him,” he blurted out in surprise, earning him a much gentler version of one of Porthos’ regular shoulder slaps.

 

“Of course we caught him,” the large man responded, now guiding the marksman to his horse.

 

“But what about the giant?” Aramis went on, regretting his words as soon as he’d spoken them.

 

With a mild smirk, Athos replied. “Apparently, you scared him off.”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos agreed as he swung himself onto his horse. “As soon as he threw you out of the way, he took off like a shot.”

 

“He caught me momentarily unprepared,” the marksman retorted good-naturedly as he mounted as well. “Of course, I didn’t see either of you deciding to take him on.”

 

Porthos snorted with laughter as Athos remarked, “You seemed to have things well in hand, even if your strategy left something to be desired.”

 

Aramis could feel heat flushing his face, but more with embarrassment rather than anger. He knew that neither of his friends would have left him to fend for himself, but it had been a good reminder to always enter every situation prepared, with his weapon drawn. With a nod, he fell into place behind Athos, allowing Porthos to follow and keep an eye on him. 

* * *

Bernier slunk through the crowds with ease, people instinctively moving out of his way as he hurried to his destination. He couldn’t keep the grin off his face as he considered his good fortune, something his employer – former employer – would have been chagrined to find out. Broussard had been a decent boss, paying him well enough that he could afford some proper clothes, relatively good food, and even the occasional bottle of decent brandy. However, the man underestimated his enforcer, just as so many before him had.

 

Bernier had dutifully completed his master’s bidding, keeping the man safe from his enemies and providing motivation and punishment in equal measure when customers found themselves unable to repay their loans. It was a win-win situation; he was allowed to indulge in the physical violence that he craved almost more than drink, while his employer became both rich and feared, at least in comparison to many others in the Court of Miracles.

 

It should have been enough, but Bernier was always looking for his next opportunity, and he’d been attentive when doing his rounds with Broussard, carefully noting the names and locations of the man’s debtors, and the amounts each owed. It had been a daunting task, given that he didn’t know how to read or write, but he’d managed to devise a system of symbols that only he could understand, and which would now lead him to wealth of his own. Given Broussard’s reputation, there was no doubt in his mind that customers would continue to show up to pay or to try and renegotiate their terms. With the money-lender indisposed, Bernier would step into his place and take over the thriving business for himself.

 

With those thoughts at the forefront of his mind, he arrived at one of the better taverns in the city, his one hand wrapped protectively around the purse he’d liberated from Broussard’s belt before the man had fled. Tonight, he’d eat and drink like royalty before taking his former boss’ house for his own. Tomorrow, he’d begin collecting from his customers. Sitting down at a table near the back of the establishment, he gleefully withdrew several coins from his purse, slapping them down onto the table in front of him. His grin widened as the maid who’d come to take his order became suddenly more attentive. Luck had most definitely smiled on him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He groaned as someone persistently tapped his cheek, the action driving a spike of pain through his fragile skull.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to AZGirl for her ongoing help with this story. Hope everyone enjoys this next part!

When d’Artagnan had arrived at the garrison, the kitchen boys were just cleaning up from the midday meal. He’d sought out his friends, and was told that they’d left shortly before his arrival to complete a mission. His heart initially sank at having missed his opportunity to accompany them, until he was assured that the three would be back by dinnertime, or possibly earlier.

 

He debated simply turning around and leaving again, but decided to stay when Gaillard invited him to spar. The next few hours passed in a blur of armed and unarmed practice, interspersed with the occasional break for water or food. Before he knew it, the training day was ending, and men all around him were packing up their things in preparation to return to their rooms.

 

Making one last swipe of a cloth along the flat edge of his sword, d’Artagnan lifted it to look along its length, giving a self-satisfied nod at what he saw. Rising, he sheathed the blade and leaned down to pick up his doublet from where he’d left it resting on the edge of the table. As his fingers brushed the warm leather, his ears detected the sounds of approaching riders, and he swung his gaze toward the gates to watch as Athos, Aramis and Porthos came through.

 

Slipping his arms into the sleeves of his doublet, he meandered towards the men as they brought their horses to a halt. “d’Artagnan,” Porthos bellowed in greeting, causing the Gascon to grin widely in return. “We were wonderin’ if you were gonna show up today.”

 

The young man ducked his head for a moment before lifting it again. “I had a bit of an adventure this morning that kept me away until midday.”

 

Aramis nodded in understanding, gingerly dismounting from his horse and handing the reins off to the stable boy. “We had a bit ourselves today,” he commented, already moving closer to the Gascon. As if they’d choreographed their movements, the Inseparables placed themselves in front of d’Artagnan in a loose semi-circle, the marksman immediately squinting at the darkening bruise on the young man’s cheek.

 

“What happened?” Athos asked before Aramis could. The Gascon’s hand self-consciously drifted to his aching cheek, and he just managed to stop himself before touching the tender skin.

 

Cockily, he replied, “Damsel in distress.” Motioning with his head towards Aramis’ temple, he rejoined, “You?”

 

“Injured in the line of duty,” the marksman replied, grimacing as if the question had reawakened the pain in his head.

 

Snorting, Porthos threw his arm around Aramis in consolation. “Given his size, you got off easy. Coulda been a lot worse.” His tone grew more serious with his last words, making the marksman roll his eyes.

 

“I told you, I’m fine,” Aramis huffed, sensing his friend’s need for reassurance.

 

Athos motioned towards their usual table. “Perhaps we can trade stories while we eat?” It was not really meant as a question, and Porthos began moving in agreement, pulling the marksman along with him. They’d left before the midday meal and were now quite famished.

 

d’Artagnan attacked the food as soon as it was placed onto the table, Porthos eyeing the young man with a combination of admiration and mock fear. Filling his own plate, he remarked as he motioned towards the Gascon with his head, “Guess we’d better start.”

 

Athos noted the fervour with which d’Artagnan was eating, while Aramis asked, “Hungry, are we?”

 

d’Artagnan stopped in mid-chew, taking a moment to look up from his meal and grin sheepishly. Swallowing, he replied, “Sorry; I didn’t have time for more than a snack during our training breaks.” Delaying his next bite, he asked, “So tell me, where were you today?”

 

Aramis became focused on his meal while Athos and Porthos exchanged glances, silently deciding which of them would share their story. With an abbreviated shrug of one shoulder, Porthos began to explain. “Arrested a money-lender today and took him to the Chatelet.” With that, he took a bite of his food, leaving all three of his friends looking at him expectantly to continue. It took several seconds before he noticed. “What?” he asked, earning him another eye roll from Aramis, which was immediately followed by a wince.

 

“Don’t do that,” Porthos gently admonished his friend before continuing. “He had some hired muscle with him. While Athos and I chased down the money-lender, Aramis tangled with his enforcer.” His eyes crinkled with amusement as he declared, “The brute came out on the winning side.”

 

Aramis looked as though he might protest, but Athos interjected before the other man could speak. “Yes, he did.” His gaze hardened as he pinned the marksman with a penetrating stare. “Why wasn’t your pistol in your hand?”

 

The expression on Aramis’ face flashed quickly from anger to embarrassment, and he dropped his head for a moment before nodding and replying in a defeated tone. “You’re right, of course, it was a foolish mistake on my part. It won’t happen again.”

 

Athos could see the sincerity shining in his friend’s eyes, and gave a curt nod before turning back to his meal. As he did so, Porthos shifted his attention to the Gascon, who’d by now cleared his plate. “And what about you? What damsel were you savin’ today?”

 

d’Artagnan blanched for a moment as he considered how much he could divulge. From what he knew of these men, they thought well of Constance, and the same could be said in return, but he was certain that she would be horrified if others knew of her financial concerns. On the other hand, his ears had perked up when the men had mentioned a money-lender, and he’d immediately begun to wonder if fortune had smiled on him once again.

 

He gave a casual shrug as he replied, “Nothing much. Just helped a woman with her packages and her husband disapproved.” Waving a hand nonchalantly towards his face, he said, “Left me with this as a warning to stay away from her.”

 

Aramis chuckled as he said, “d’Artagnan, if you’re going to continue pursuing married women, you’ll need to get better at avoiding their jealous husbands.”

 

The comment brought forth more snickering, which made the Gascon blush, even though he couldn’t keep from grinning as well. Hoping he wasn’t being too obvious, he queried. “So, this enforcer, he was large?”

 

“A mountain of man,” Aramis quickly declared, warming to the subject and his chance to explain that things really hadn’t been his fault. As Athos and Porthos listened on in amusement, the marksman provided a detailed description of the money-lender’s hired muscle, giving d’Artagnan enough information to conclude that they were the same men he’d met earlier with Constance.

 

His relief showed on his face in the relaxed grin he wore when Aramis had finished. Finally noticing the young man’s expression, the marksman remarked, “You seem very pleased with yourself, all of a sudden.”

 

d’Artagnan merely shrugged as he replied, “Just glad you’re alright after dealing with such a brute.” The sentiment was an honest one, and must have come through in his tone, because Aramis gave a genuine smile in return before nodding in understanding.

 

Porthos looked around and noted that most of the courtyard had emptied, the men having retired to their rooms or to a tavern to wile away their evening hours. Smacking his lips, he asked, “Anyone for the Black Crow tonight?” The tavern he’d named was well-known for its gambling, but also served decent ale and wine. As the men glanced at one another, trying to decide, Porthos spoke again. “Come on, we’ll celebrate the two heroes in our midst. Athos will even buy the first round.” He slapped the older man on the shoulder good-naturedly, and Athos simply quirked his lips in reply. “See, he agrees,” Porthos stated, already rising.

 

d’Artagnan was still torn, wanting to spend more time with his friends, but also excited to share the good news with Constance. “Come on,” Porthos said, throwing an arm across the Gascon’s shoulders and pulling him along. The young man gave a nod and let himself be led from the garrison into the city streets. He would only have one or two drinks, and then he would return to his lodgings in plenty of time to let Constance know what he’d learned. 

* * *

He groaned as someone persistently tapped his cheek, the action driving a spike of pain through his fragile skull. “Think he’s finally waking up,” someone said above him. The hand returned, and this time he turned his head away, mumbling through lips that he seemed to have lost all control over, “Don’t.”

 

“Uh huh, he’s awake alright.” d’Artagnan’s aching brain identified the voice as belonging to Porthos as he let his head roll back to its original position, wincing with the movement.

 

He struggled to unglue his eyes as the low sounds of conversation reached his ears. The effort seemed a monumental task, but he finally accomplished it, staring blearily into Porthos’ twinkling eyes. “You back with us?” he asked, his face splitting in a broad grin. “Told ya you shoulda slowed down.”

 

d’Artagnan’s brow furrowed in confusion as he blinked, trying to cut through the haze that seemed to be wrapped around his brain like cotton. “Wha’?” he finally managed.

 

Porthos snorted as he looked somewhere to the Gascon’s left, making the young man wonder what his friend was looking at. “Told ya we shoulda stopped him.”

 

“Yes, yes,” Aramis’ impatient voice sounded, moments before his face appeared in d’Artagnan’s line of sight. “How are you feeling? Headache? Nausea?”

 

The Gascon licked his lips as he tried to process the questions being posed to him. “Wha’?” he repeated, failing at the task of understanding what was happening,

 

The next sound he heard was that of a put-upon sigh, and he managed to shift his head enough to see Athos standing with his arms crossed as he observed the scene. From his expression, he was thoroughly unimpressed. Letting his arms drop to his sides, he said, “We’d better get him home. A few hours in bed should get rid of the worst of his hangover.”

 

d’Artagnan’s tongue felt thick and uncoordinated as he repeated what he’d just heard. “Hangover?” Another sigh met his question, and moments later he found himself being dragged to his feet. He lurched mightily forward until Aramis and Porthos’ strong grips could steady him, the motion making him pale and swallow convulsively against the urge to be sick.

 

“He’s going to be ill,” Aramis stated from his left.

 

Resisting the urge to shake his head, d’Artagnan mumbled instead, “Not gonna be sick.” Porthos snorted in disbelief, but the two men began pulling him forward, forcing the Gascon to try and move his feet or be dragged along between them.

 

Through slitted eyes, he registered the brighter light as they left the tavern behind, and squinted as he begged his head not to split open. Although he was aware of his friends speaking in low tones while they walked, he ignored them in favour of keeping his stomach contents where they were, as he slowly adjusted to the glare of being outside. The slight morning breeze had the added effect of clearing away some of the cobwebs around his brain. Gradually, he began to take more of his weight, until he was walking nearly unaided, Porthos and Aramis giving him the occasional course adjustment when he began to veer off course or tilt too far in either direction.

 

Finally, he recognized the house they were approaching, and had the wherewithal to ask, “Why are we here? Shouldn’t we be going to the garrison instead?”

 

His comment drew another snort of derision from Porthos, while Aramis simply stated, “Getting sick all over your sparring partner is not considered a viable defensive strategy.”

 

Ahead of them, the comment drew a smile from Athos, the older man leading the way to the front door. He knocked, waiting patiently until Constance answered. Tipping his hat to her in greeting, he asked, “May we come in?” At her questioning look, he indicated the other three men with a hand and then followed her inside as she withdrew to allow them all to enter.

 

Closing the door behind them, she turned and followed them into the kitchen where d’Artagnan now sat at the table, cradling his sore head in his hands. “Well, what’s he done to himself now?” She asked, pinning each of the men in turn with an uncompromising stare.

 

The Inseparables traded looks, the silent conversation determining which of them would explain their night of overindulgence to d’Artagnan’s landlady. Getting impatient, Constance took the situation into her own hands and stepped closer to Aramis, glaring up at him as she said. “Explain.”

 

Affixing a charming smile to his face, he replied, “d’Artagnan may have overindulged last night.”

 

Madame Bonacieux turned her gaze from one man to the next, Porthos nodding contritely while Athos remained impassive but polite. Taking a step towards the Gascon, she gripped the young man’s chin and tipped it upwards, forcing him to look at her. d’Artagnan offered her an apologetic smile as she said, “You’re drunk?”

 

Aramis hurried to correct her assumption as he moved closer, grasping her arm for a moment to pull her away from the Gascon. “No, not anymore. But he was; last night.”

 

Chuckling lowly, Porthos added, “Pup can’t hold his wine.”

 

Giving the large man a half-hearted glare, d’Artagnan retorted, “I’m not a pup.”

 

Ignoring the Gascon’s comment, Constance once more turned her attention back to the Musketeers. “You let him drink himself into a stupor?”

 

Aramis looked remorseful as he responded, “Not _let_ him exactly…” He managed to say nothing more as Constance’s hand flew of its own accord, the sound of it smacking firmly against the marksman’s cheek echoing in the small space.

 

The men looked stunned for a moment before Aramis did exactly what he’d always done in the past when Constance’s temper had appeared. “My apologies, Madame. You’re right, of course, and we should have kept a closer eye on how much he was drinking. Take comfort in knowing we won’t let it happen again.”

 

Feeling flushed and somewhat embarrassed, Bonacieux ran her hands down the front of her skirt as she said, “I should hope not. Now, get out. I’ll deal with him from here.”

 

Athos let Porthos and Aramis lead the way out, turning back for a moment to address Constance. “Thank you, Madame. I’m confident that he’s in good hands.”

 

She waited until she heard the door close behind them before she collapsed into a chair next to d’Artagnan, the young man lifting his head to meet her eyes. “Sorry, Constance, I didn’t mean to cause you any trouble.”

 

She stared at him for a moment before shaking her head. After all, he wasn’t the cause of today’s worries – his condition was simply inconvenient given her other concerns. Dredging up a soft smile, she nodded as she stood. “I know, but I need to be going now.” At his look of confusion, she added, “I have an appointment I have to keep this morning, remember?”

 

It took several seconds for comprehension to dawn, but once it had, d’Artagnan jumped up and took her hands in his. “No, you don’t, Athos and the others arrested Broussard yesterday. Any debt you had to him has been erased.”

 

Bonacieux looked at him doubtfully for a moment before firmly shaking her head. “No, I can’t take that risk. If I don’t show up, he’ll come to the house, and I can’t let my husband find out what I’ve done.”

 

Seeing the determination in her eyes, d’Artagnan gave her a curt nod. “Fine, but I’m coming with you.”

 

She looked ready to argue, but could see the Gascon was resolute in his stance. “Fine, but you don’t interfere.” At his acknowledging nod, she turned and led the way to the door, praying that d’Artagnan was right and that her debt had been erased. If it hadn’t been, she had no idea what would happen, since the purse she carried was all but empty. Closing the door after them, she gave the Gascon what she hoped was a confident smile as she followed him down the street to the Rue de l'Echelle.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He turned and disappeared quickly down an alleyway, while Constance was left staring at the space where d’Artagnan had stood just moments before, an expression of horror etched onto her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the lovely response to the last chapter, and I hope you enjoy what happens next. As always, continued thanks to AZGirl for her great proofing skills.

Their journey to Rue de l'Echelle passed by quickly. Too quickly, for Constance’s liking, and she found herself intentionally dragging her feet the closer they got. d’Artagnan had apparently noticed as he finally drew her off to one side so they’d be out of the way of others walking by. Gripping her by the upper arms, he pinned her with an intense look as he said, “Constance, don’t worry, everything will be alright.”

 

She couldn’t help but wring her hands together anxiously as she considered his words. After several seconds of staring into his dark brown eyes, she crumbled, her shoulders drooping as her back bowed under the weight of her current circumstances. Blinking back the tears that had begun to pool in her eyes, she challenged his statement. “How can you be so sure?”

 

The Gascon’s expression softened as he gave her a reassuring smile. “Because, no matter what, I won’t let anything happen to you. Do you believe me?”

 

Despite her desire to appear strong, she found herself needing his assurances and found comfort in his words. She nodded wordlessly in reply, making his smile grow. Her fears weren’t completely assuaged though. “But what if Broussard is waiting for me?” She lifted her nearly empty purse as she admitted, “I don’t have the money I owe him.”

 

d’Artagnan switched his grip to clasp her hands in his as he replied, “Yes, you do. I finally have what I owe you in unpaid rent, plus a little extra. That should be more than enough.” His last words were edged with a questioning tone and garnered another nod from Constance.

 

Frowning, she resisted the Gascon’s attempt to get them moving again, planting her feet as she asked. “Does this mean you’ve received the income from your farm?”

 

The question caused d’Artagnan’s brow to pucker as he replied, “Not exactly, but where the money came from isn’t important right now.”

 

Constance shifted her body away from him as another option dawned on her. “Did that woman you were with give you money?” Her voice was edged with accusation and she noted the slight wince that the Gascon tried to hide at her question. “She did. I don’t know what your relationship is with her, but I’m not interested in anything she gave you, money or otherwise,” she stated indignantly.

 

“Constance, it’s not like that,” d’Artagnan hissed, noting the attention they were beginning to draw from those around them. “She’s a friend, nothing more, and she just wanted to thank me for helping her.”

 

“Hmph, _helping_ , is that what they’re calling it these days?” she responded sarcastically. The hurt that flashed across the young man’s face had her regretting her words almost at once, but it had stung to see d’Artagnan on such friendly terms with another woman. Sighing, she forced herself to calm down. “Fine, you have the rent you owe, and we won’t say anything more about it.”

 

“Thank you,” d’Artagnan responded, and she could still hear the undercurrent of tension in his tone at her earlier words.

 

They began walking again, the silence that stretched between them uncomfortable in a way that Constance had never before experienced. For whatever reason, she’d never minded the quiet when in this young man’s company, but now it was a reflection of the cruel words she’d uttered in her bid to hurt his feelings, just as he’d inadvertently hurt hers. The desire confused her as she reminded herself that she was a married woman. d’Artagnan was a handsome, single man, and it would be unusual if women didn’t notice him. The thought drew another frown to her face, which the Gascon mistakenly attributed to the presence of the man he was now observing.

 

“I see him too,” d’Artagnan said, and it took Constance a moment to realize they’d stopped as she followed his gaze, spotting the person he was referring to.

 

Across the street, Bernier stood in the usual location, and although she couldn’t see Broussard, she had little doubt that he was nearby. The sight had her gasping softly, and d’Artagnan responded by giving her arm a quick squeeze. “Best get this over with,” he stated as he led the way to the other side of the street.

 

Bernier’s gaze settled on him at once, his eyes examining the bruise on the Gascon’s face that had darkened overnight. He grinned at the sight of his handiwork. “Looks painful,” he commented once the two had stopped across from him.

 

“Looks can be deceiving,” d’Artagnan replied evenly, keeping his expression neutral. “Where’s your boss?”

 

Bernier looked at the young man calculatingly for several moments as if weighing the man in front of him and deciding how to respond. “He’s not the boss anymore. From now on, you’ll be dealing with me.”

 

Constance watched as the Gascon’s brow rose questioningly, his posture displaying his gaining confidence as he hooked his thumbs into his belt. “Then I’d say that our business is concluded.”

 

Bernier scowled, but didn’t move as he countered. “All of Broussard’s customers are now _my_ customers. That means that _she_ and _I_ still have business to discuss,” he stated, looking meaningfully at Bonacieux.

 

She looked pointedly at d’Artagnan, begging him to simply pay the man so they could be on their way. For a moment, he seemed unwilling to comply, but then his features shifted and he sighed softly as he reached a hand inside his doublet. Extending the hand to Bernier, he said, “This should be more than enough to cover her loan.”

 

As he opened his hand, Constance found herself leaning forward to examine the exquisite hairpin that rested there. “d’Artagnan, it’s too much…” she began to say, only to stop as Bernier’s hand darted forward to snatch the item.

 

She watched silently as the giant turned the hairpin to and fro, before biting down on it to test the metal it was made of. Finally, he turned his attention back to them. “This will do…as a start.”

 

d’Artagnan had already begun moving them away from the large man, only to stop at his strange words. “What do you mean, as a start?”

 

Constance’s words followed closely after the Gascon’s as she angrily stated, “That hairpin is easily worth more than what I owed Broussard.”

 

Bernier’s face split into a hard grin as he said, “I agree, and that’s why I want something more of equal value from you before I consider our business concluded.”

 

“You’re daft,” Constance declared as she gathered her skirts in preparation to leave. “What makes you think I’ll give you another sou?”

 

“There’s only one reason why a married woman would seek to borrow money,” Bernier replied, his expression morphing to one of cruel satisfaction. “And that’s to keep her husband from finding out she’s mismanaged the household budget.”

 

“How do you know I’m not her husband?” d’Artagnan countered, lifting his chin defiantly towards the larger man.

 

Bernier shook his head slowly. “No, you’re not her husband, which makes me wonder why, exactly, you keep stickin’ your nose into this business.”

 

Constance didn’t like the look the giant was now giving the Gascon, and spoke up in his defense. “He’s a good man and a Musketeer, that’s who he is.” The words were spoken with a level of pride and conviction that surprised d’Artagnan, and his grateful gaze swung in her direction.

 

In that moment, Bernier’s fist lashed out, striking a punishing blow to d’Artagnan’s already bruised cheek, and laying him out flat on the ground. With an ease belied by his size, Bernier swiftly scooped up the young man and effortlessly threw him over one shoulder.

 

Shocked at the sudden turn of events, Constance fairly shrieked, “What are you doing?”

 

“Not a word to the Musketeers,” Bernier warned, his eyes flashing with anger. As soon as the words had left Constance’s mouth, he’d known that he’d need to act decisively to protect his new position. The best, and only option, seemed to be to take the young soldier with him, and to secure a promise of silence from the women under threat of the man’s life. “You have two days to pay me the other half of your debt. After that, he dies.”

 

With that, he turned and disappeared quickly down an alleyway, while Constance was left staring at the space where d’Artagnan had stood just moments before, an expression of horror etched onto her face. 

* * *

Constance stumbled along the uneven cobblestones, her mind churning as she debated her options. Her heart warred with her brain, arguing that d’Artagnan’s life was more important than any embarrassment she’d face for her dealings with the moneylender. Her pride turned out to be the harder of the two to convince, pointing out the folly of doing anything that might reveal her actions to her husband. The inner debate was all-consuming, blinding her to everything and everyone around her until she found herself standing in the garrison courtyard.

 

The realization sent a flush of panic through her system, adrenaline pumping through her veins with each beat of her heart, and encouraging her to flee. She almost did, but a voice calling her name froze her in place.

 

“Madame Bonacieux, to what do we owe the pleasure?”

 

Aramis’ voice flowed over her and her heart sank as she realized it was too late to run. She did her best to scrounge up a smile as the marksman approached, Athos and Porthos following in his wake.

 

He must have noticed her pale features and her wide eyes. Adopting a hint of a frown, he stopped in front of her and asked, “Is everything alright?”

 

She searched for several moments for the words to explain what had happened, failing completely and finally just throwing her hands up in frustration as tears welled in her eyes. Aramis’ hands gently captured hers and held them, his face a mix of concern and anticipation as he waited patiently for her to compose herself and explain. Managing a deep, steadying breath, she finally blurted out, “d’Artagnan’s been taken.”

 

She barely caught the look that passed between the three men before Aramis was leading her over to a table and guiding her to sit down. Crouching down in front of her, and still holding her hands, he asked, “What do you mean, d’Artagnan’s been taken?”

 

Constance glanced up at Athos and Porthos, both of whom were standing behind Aramis, intently watching her as they waited for her response. With a tremulous breath, she explained. “I borrowed some money from a man named Broussard, and was due to repay my loan today.”

 

“Then you are in luck, Madame,” Aramis stated. “We arrested him yesterday.”

 

She frowned for a moment and then shook her head. “d’Artagnan said the same thing, but my problem hasn’t gone away with his arrest.” Steeling herself, she continued. “His enforcer has taken over his business.”

 

“Bernier?” Porthos asked, receiving a nod from Constance. The large man muttered something disparaging under his breath that had Athos dipping his chin in agreement, but it was said too quietly for her to hear.

 

“What does this have to do with d’Artagnan?” Athos questioned, already having reached a conclusion and now hoping that his deduction was flawed.

 

“Bernier wasn’t satisfied with my payment,” Constance replied.

 

Though disturbed at the fact that she’d still tried to repay her loan, Athos asked, “You repaid your debt?”

 

She let out a small huff. “More than repaid based on the look of that hairpin.”

 

Porthos’ brow furrowed as he tried to understand what he was hearing. “What hairpin?”

 

“It’s nothing,” she shrugged, dismissing the item as unimportant. “All you need to know is that he got more than what I owed, but he still wasn’t satisfied. He threatened to tell my husband if I didn’t pay him the same again.”

 

She’d stopped speaking and the three men looked at each other in varying states of confusion, still not comprehending how Constance’s situation had ended with the Gascon’s abduction. “What happened to d’Artagnan?” Aramis pressed.

 

Constance took a breath that sounded suspiciously like a sob. “I tried to scare him off.”

 

“Who? Bernier?” Porthos clarified, receiving a nod in reply.

 

“I told him that d’Artagnan was a Musketeer, thinking he’d leave me alone, but instead, he hit him,” Constance continued, her eyes now watery with unshed tears. Porthos’ head dropped to his chest for a moment as he considered the dire implications of Bonacieux’s words.

 

Athos had clearly understood as well, and he softly queried, “Did he warn you not to say anything to us?” Constance nodded wordlessly, now looking down at her hands, which were still clasped in Aramis’. “How much time did he give you?”

 

“Two days,” she replied, still speaking to her lap as she blinked against the moisture in her eyes.

 

Athos shifted his gaze to the marksman, conveying his order wordlessly. Aramis gave a curt nod in reply, rising smoothly to his feet and pulling Constance along with him. “Come, Madame, I’ll escort you home.” She looked between the men in confusion. “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of this and find d’Artagnan.” The assurance seemed to satisfy her, and she fell into step with Aramis who led her out of the garrison.

 

In the courtyard, Athos turned to Porthos who said, “I’ll head down to the Court and find out where we can find Bernier.”

 

“And I’ll inform Treville,” Athos responded, the two men splitting and heading in opposite directions.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Swallowing thickly, he closed his eyes and squeezed his hands into fists, desperately searching for the courage to check on the men, while knowing with certainty that they were both dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments on the last chapter - it was great hearing that you enjoyed the twist at the end. Thanks also to AZGirl for her wonderful beta skills.
> 
> Looks like this chapter will be the longest of the story. Hope you enjoy!

The feeling of something hard and damp beneath his cheek was his first conscious thought, and had d’Artagnan wondering why he’d fallen asleep in such an uncomfortable location. He moved to roll away from the cause of his discomfort, only to find himself unable to do so. The realization brought him to another level of awareness, and he mumbled an incoherent, “What?” The action brought a flash of pain to his jaw, and he groaned miserably as the sharp sensation shot upwards along his cheekbone and into his brain.

 

Squeezing his eyes against the deep ache, he breathed deeply several times in an attempt to quell the pain. When it had dimmed in intensity, he forced his eyes open, blinking several times as the sight of a hard-packed dirt floor came into focus. Frowning, he shifted his gaze further, noting the roughly-hewn wood walls in the low lighting. His surroundings weren’t at all familiar, which served only to deepen his confusion.

 

Growing frustrated, and still feeling as though his mind was shrouded in fog, he attempted to roll onto his back again, this time registering the placement of his arms behind him, which prevented the movement. An attempt to bring his arms forward revealed the fact that they were tightly bound at the wrists, and with that realization, his memory came flooding back. Within an instant, he’d remembered walking with Constance, the fearful expression on her face as he’d paid Bernier, and then the man’s ridiculous demand for more money. It was at that point that his memory deserted him, and his brows furrowed as he tried to force his brain to recall what had happened next.

 

“Awake, are we?” Bernier’s voice cut across the room, startling d’Artagnan as he realized he wasn’t alone.

 

With effort, he raised his head off the ground to look past his boots, finding the giant man standing several feet away. Stifling the groan that bubbled in his chest, he let his head drop back to the ground, unable to hold it while lying in such an awkward position on his side.

 

He could hear Bernier’s footfalls as the man moved closer, and found himself suddenly feeling intensely vulnerable, prompting him to begin an odd shimmy that moved his body backwards to an unseen wall, where he partially propped himself up against its support.

 

Bernier had waited patiently for his captive to reposition himself before he crouched down closer to the Gascon’s eye level. “I was beginning to think I’d hit you too hard.”

 

The comment was accompanied by a mirthless grin that had d’Artagnan’s skin crawling. He glared in reply, biding his time as he tried to understand what had happened. When Bernier simply continued to watch him, he gave a silent sigh and asked, “Why am I here?”

 

The money lender considered him for a moment before he said, “Are you really a Musketeer?”

 

The non sequitur threw d’Artagnan for a heartbeat before he narrowed his eyes and countered, “And what if I am?”

 

The giant’s grin widened as he read his captive’s expression and confidently stated, “You’re no Musketeer.”

 

d’Artagnan considered trying to convince the man otherwise, but could see no benefit in doing so. Instead, he reiterated his earlier question. “Why am I here?”

 

“As motivation, of course,” Bernier replied smugly.

 

It took the Gascon several seconds before his aching head connected the dots and comprehended the giant’s intention. Summoning more courage than he currently felt, he scoffed. “If you think Constance will pay anything for me, then you’re stupider than you look.”

 

The comment drew the expected glare, and d’Artagnan held his breath for a heartbeat as he waited to see if Bernier would retaliate. With effort, the large man smoothed his features as he responded. “She’ll pay,” he stated confidently. “You didn’t see the look on her face as I was leavin’ with ya.”

 

Confused, and not knowing how to reply, the Gascon chose to remain silent instead. His captor interpreted the silence as agreement and his lips split in a wide, smug grin. Standing up, he placed his hands on his hips for a second as he said, “Now, don’t go anywhere.” His eyes flashed with amusement at his joke. “I’ve other customers to deal with, but I’ll be back in a few hours.”

 

d’Artagnan watched as the large man retreated from the room, exiting via a stepladder to a door set into the ceiling. “I can hardly wait,” he muttered to himself, as he found himself alone. Alone, and helpless, he conceded, as he shook his head in disgust and tried to ignore the numbness of his hands.

 

Just yesterday he’d been joking about saving a damsel in distress; today, he was that damsel. “They’ll never let me live this down,” he said under his breath, already envisioning his friends’ ribbing. The thought sobered him as he added silently, ‘Assuming they find me in time, that is.’

 

He sighed, settling his head against the wall at his back as he waited to be rescued.

* * *

Aramis had come back within an hour of departing the garrison, but despite his quick return, Athos still found the time dragging as he waited for the three of them to be reunited. Briefing the Captain had taken almost no time at all, and as he’d expected, Treville had given them free reign to do whatever was necessary – within reason – to get d’Artagnan back and put Bernier out of business.

 

When the marksman had arrived, he’d spotted Athos sitting at their usual table in the courtyard, positioned to watch the entranceway, and he’d taken a seat next to the man. For the next hour, Aramis had sharpened and then polished his main gauche, the already deadly weapon’s edge glinting dangerously in the sunlight when he’d finished.

 

Athos was the complete opposite of his friend, sitting as still as a statue, something he knew that always surprised his friends, but which allowed him to think without interruption. Little did they know that underneath his calm façade, his mind was in turmoil, and his emotions roiled just beneath the surface of a thin veneer of forced composure.

 

Once, over a glass of Treville’s best brandy, and following a particularly nightmarish mission, Athos had admitted to his commanding officer that he was nowhere near as collected as others thought him to be. The Captain had merely smiled knowingly and dipped his head in understanding, as he compared Athos to a duck gliding over water – serene to the naked eye, but churning like mad beneath the glassy surface. The former comte had initially frowned at the analogy, but upon reflection, had to agree. It was a trait that he now prided himself upon, knowing that his enemies would underestimate what he was capable of.

 

Porthos’ arrival broke him out of his ruminations, and at his side, he noted how quickly Aramis straightened, one hand already moving to replace his dagger into the sheath at his back. They stood as one and moved forward to meet their comrade, the look on the large man’s face a contradictory mixture of excitement and worry that made him difficult to read.

 

Stopping in front of them, Porthos wasted no time. “I’ve found ‘im. He’s taken over Broussard’s old lodgings at Rue St. Jean.”

 

The three turned in tandem towards the stables as they continued to talk. “Do you think that’s where he’ll have d’Artagnan?” Aramis asked, absently patting his weapons belt and confirming the presence of his pistols and sword.

 

Athos caught the shrug Porthos offered in reply, before stating. “It doesn’t matter. We’ve no better lead, and need to start looking somewhere.”

 

It wasn’t the most promising start they’d ever had to a mission, but it was also far from the worst. Taking comfort in that small bit of good news, they moved swiftly through the process of saddling their horses, riding out through the garrison gates a scant fifteen minutes after Porthos’ arrival. The large man led them unerringly to the building that supposedly housed their target, leaving the horses two streets away from their destination to help mask the sounds of their approach.

 

As they crowded against one corner of a building across the street, Aramis asked, “Any way of knowing if he’s home?”

 

Porthos gave a quick dip of his chin as he eased away from the wall and gave a low, piercing whistle. As he sank back against the building’s support, a young boy of seven or eight ran towards them, Athos’ brow lifting in silent surprise as he made directly for their location. Joining them in their somewhat sheltered position, the boy immediately made eye contact with Porthos.

 

Crouching down to the child’s eye level, Porthos asked, “Well, what do you have for me?”

 

“He got back about ten minutes ago,” the boy confidently stated. At Porthos’ raised eyebrow, he added. “He was alone. No idea if anyone else is inside.”

 

The large Musketeer dipped his fingers into the purse at his side and pulled out a coin, which he flipped to the young man. Catching it easily, the boy asked, “Want me to keep watchin’?”

 

“No, that’s alright,” Porthos replied. “You run along now and stay outta trouble.” With a cheeky grin, that was eerily reminiscent of d’Artagnan’s, the boy scampered away, disappearing just as quickly and quietly as he’d appeared.

 

“Very useful network you have here,” Aramis remarked with a smile.

 

Porthos grinned back before turning his attention to Bernier’s house. “How’re we doing this?”

 

Athos had been silently appraising their target, noting the single door at the front, and the two windows on the upper floor. Even with three of them, it was a large amount of space to cover, forcing them to split up and likely encounter the enforcer on their own. The idea of repeating Aramis’ earlier experience was less than appealing, yet he didn’t think there was any other choice. With a sigh, he faced his companions to share his instructions. “We go in together and check that first room. Aramis, you’ll stand guard at the door, and yell the moment you spot Bernier.”

 

“Athos, no…” the marksman began to protest.

 

“Aramis, you’ve already been injured once, and I won’t have it happening again. Besides, we need someone at the door in case he makes a run for it,” Athos stated firmly. Reluctantly, the marksman nodded in acquiescence.

 

“Porthos, you and I will check the house floor by floor, heading to the cellar if there is one, before moving upstairs to the top floor,” Athos finished. With a last check of their weapons, the three moved swiftly across the street, Porthos pushing the door open easily, his expression one of surprise to find it unlocked.

 

As they’d discussed, Aramis stood guard inside the entryway, watching nervously as his friends moved about the rooms on the first floor. When they came up empty-handed, they moved in sync towards a trapdoor set into the floor which could only lead to the cellar. Porthos lifted it while Athos covered him, pointing his pistol into the darkness beyond. When nothing moved below, the older man cautiously led the way down, Porthos following immediately afterwards.

 

They were fortunate that a torch still burned, providing a small amount of illumination in the otherwise dark room. Athos’ first glance took in the empty room, surprised to find that the cellar wasn’t being used for storage. A second look located the Gascon, the young man either asleep or unconscious against the far wall. “d’Artagnan.” The name escaped his lips without conscious thought as his legs carried him to the Gascon’s side.

 

Athos dropped to his knees next to their friend, his eyes scanning the young man for signs of life, and the tight band of worry around his chest loosening as he noted the even rise and fall of d’Artagnan’s chest. _Alive_ , he told himself, letting his head dip to his chest in a moment of relief.

 

“He alright?” Porthos asked.

 

Athos raised his eyes to his friend’s, offering a short nod in reply before turning his attention back to the Gascon. Placing a hand on the young man’s shoulder, he gave a gentle shake. “d’Artagnan, wake up.” He was pleased when their friend’s eyes began to flutter almost at once, clearing seconds later as they focused on him.

 

“Athos,” d’Artagnan breathed out, his gaze shifting next to the large man. “Porthos. You found me.” The statement was accompanied by a grin, despite the pain it must have caused as the motion pulled at bruised and swollen skin. The smile faded in the next moment as the Gascon looked beyond them. “Bernier?”

 

“Haven’t found him yet,” Porthos replied, his tone sombre. Athos prepared to rise, but the large man stayed him with a hand. “No, you stay here and get him untied. I’ll make my way to the top floor.”

 

Athos was torn. As their leader, he felt responsible for the others and was loathe to have either of his friends go up against Bernier alone. On the other hand, Porthos was the logical choice to go in search of the enforcer, possessing the greatest strength and skill when it came to close quarters combat. As if reading his mind, Porthos’ expression softened as he said, “It’ll be alright, Athos. You can follow me as soon as d’Artagnan’s free.” Reluctantly, the older man nodded, turning to the ropes that bound the Gascon even as the larger man was climbing out of the cellar.

 

d’Artagnan shifted as best he could onto his side to allow Athos access to his hands, already anticipating the welcome freedom of having his arms loose. Rather than wasting time trying to undo the knots that held his friend fast, Athos pulled out his main gauche and sawed through the thick rope. He noted how difficult it was for the young man to bring his arms forward, and assisted by gently placing first one limb and then the other into the Gascon’s lap.

 

“Thanks,” d’Artagnan said with a grimace, already feeling the pins and needles as proper blood flow was restored.

 

Athos turned his attention to his friend’s ankles, and moments later, the rope confining them dropped to the floor. Preparing to get up, he asked, “Do you think you can stand?”

 

d’Artagnan dipped his chin in reply, raising his right arm in an unspoken request for assistance. Athos gripped the young man’s forearm and rose, pulling the other man with him. The Gascon swayed for just a second before nodding. “I’m good. Let’s go find Porthos.”

 

Athos was about to protest d’Artagnan’s involvement, but the steely resolve in the young man’s eyes had him biting his tongue and leading the way out. He was pleased to find the Gascon keeping up with him, suggesting that the strength had already returned to his recently bound limbs. As they exited the cellar, Athos caught Aramis moving towards them, relief obvious in his expression. He ordered the marksman to maintain his position with a quick shake of his head. With a scowl, Aramis stepped back, watching as Athos and d’Artagnan flew by and ran up the stairs to the second floor.

 

Athos halted at the top as he tried to figure out Porthos’ location. A cry of pain offered a direction and he headed for a room at the end of the hallway, arriving just in time to watch Porthos stagger to his feet, while Bernier dashed towards the window. Athos didn’t hesitate, aiming his pistol and pulling the trigger, the ball just barely grazing the giant’s arm.

 

Porthos watched the enforcer slip easily through the window and onto the roof outside, his intention clear as he moved in the same direction. “I’ve got ‘im. You follow from down below,” he threw over his shoulder at Athos. Turning on his heel, the older man exited the room, only to run into Aramis who’d raced upstairs after hearing the gunshot. “Porthos?” the marksman questioned.

 

“Tracking Bernier via the rooftops,” Athos replied, already moving again towards the stairs.

 

“I’m going after him,” Aramis called, his feet carrying him swiftly down the hallway.

 

The older man reached the front door, taking a moment to glance behind him and frowning when he failed to spot d’Artagnan at his back. He’d automatically assumed the Gascon would follow him and only now realized that wasn’t the case. Muttering a curse beneath his breath, he stepped out of the house and moved several feet away from the row of buildings. Scanning the rooftops, it took only a moment to spot Bernier, closely followed by Porthos. Several feet behind them, d’Artagnan was quickly closing in, while Aramis brought up the rear.

 

Allowing another curse to slip past his lips, Athos threw himself into motion, splitting his time between glancing upwards to keep track of the men, and ensuring he didn’t run into anyone on the street. While his position seemed to be the easier one to be in, the men above him didn’t seem hampered at all, smoothly jumping over the expanses that separated the buildings, and nimbly maintaining their balance on the oft-slanted rooftops.

 

Another quick glance upwards showed Porthos nearly on top of their quarry, and Athos threw his head down as he sped up, wanting to be as close as possible once Bernier was caught. A loud cry of pain stopped him in his tracks and had him once more looking upwards for any sign of his friends. He spotted Bernier, d’Artagnan at the man’s heels, but wasn’t able to see any sign of Porthos. He wavered for several long seconds until Aramis drew closer to the edge and yelled down to him, “I’ve got Porthos. Go; stay with d’Artagnan!”

 

Aramis’ words were enough to have him moving again, and he ran as quickly as possible in an effort to catch up to the two men ahead of him. As he raced along, he cursed the awkwardness of the sword swinging at his side, which forced him to keep one hand on the weapon, lest it trip him. His breathing was laboured as he struggled to keep up, and a small part of his mind registered his shock at the stamina of the men above him.

 

Finally, it seemed that their chase might come to an end as d’Artagnan drew closer, reminding Athos that his friend was unarmed. The realization sent a fresh rush of fear through him, and he cursed his own stupidity at not having given the Gascon a weapon. About to call out to the young man, he was shocked to see d’Artagnan throw himself at the giant’s legs, bringing them both down in a tangle of limbs.

 

Athos could only shake his head in wonder at the Gascon’s brave, but foolish act, as his eyes scanned the area for a way to get up to the roof where Bernier and d’Artagnan now faced each other. Before he could locate a viable access point, his attention was drawn back to the roof where the enforcer was rapidly encroaching on the Gascon’s position, taking one swing after another at the young man. Incredibly, none of the hits landed, d’Artagnan quickly ducking and weaving away from each strike.

 

As he watched, the young man made his move, catching Bernier’s arm and pulling with the momentum of his swing. The surprise attack left the giant man off-balance, and he stumbled sideways as d’Artagnan continued to pull on the captured limb. For a moment, the tide seemed to be turning in the Gascon’s favour until Bernier’s foot caught on something. As he tripped and began to fall backwards, d’Artagnan followed, not realizing until it was too late that they were both going down. Unfortunately, their fight had brought them to the edge of the rooftop, and Bernier was on the verge of falling off the tall building.

 

“d’Artagnan, let go!” Athos called frantically, wanting nothing more than for his friend to stay safe. Before the echo of his words had died away, Bernier was over the edge, dragging the Gascon with him. “No!” Athos cried, unaware that he’d even done so as both men toppled from the three-storey structure to land in the alley between two buildings.

 

The sound of bodies hitting the cobblestone street was horrific, and Athos would swear that he had heard the sharp crack of bones breaking as the men had impacted with the ground. The drop had lasted a mere heartbeat, but he found that he was now frozen in place, unable to make his feet move towards the young man who’d proven his innocence a few months earlier. Swallowing thickly, he closed his eyes and squeezed his hands into fists, desperately searching for the courage to check on the men, while knowing with certainty that they were both dead.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As they lurched into motion, he forced his thoughts away from the friend he was leaving behind, focusing instead on everything he’d have to do to tend to the friends he was bringing to safety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the great reactions to the last chapter and sorry for the cliff hanger - or, cliff dive, as one reader called it - at the end. Hope you enjoy this next part!
> 
> Thanks, as well, to AZGirl for all of her help and her last minute beta (totally my fault) of this chapter.

Aramis had watched helplessly while Bernier and Porthos had fought. Despite admiring his friend’s strength and abilities in hand-to-hand combat, he recalled his own embarrassingly easy defeat at the hands of the large enforcer, and couldn’t help the inrush of worry as the two men clashed. d’Artagnan was ahead of him, but not yet close enough to assist Porthos, the young man’s nimble grace serving him well as he’d swiftly pulled away from the marksman. Aramis had gritted his teeth in response, forcing his arms and legs to pump faster, and doing his best to ignore the stubborn throbbing of his head that kept time with his heart.

 

Still too far away to be of any help, he watched powerlessly as Bernier dealt a vicious blow to Porthos’ upper torso, the strike bringing forth a howl of pain from his friend as he immediately dropped to his knees. In that moment, Aramis wondered if Porthos had been stabbed, and he pushed his leaden legs to move faster. Despite the pain he must have been suffering, the large man waved to d’Artagnan to keep going, and the young man put on a fresh burst of speed, as his determination to catch the money lender was renewed.

 

Seconds later, Aramis skidded to a stop and yelled down to Athos below, “I’ve got Porthos. Go; stay with d’Artagnan!” Next, he moved to his friend’s side, his chest heaving as he struggled to find more breath to ask the other man if he was alright. Porthos was still on his knees, having sat back on his heels, his back bowed with the effort of trying to curl in on himself. Reaching out a trembling hand to rest on the large man’s shoulder, the marksman began to speak, only to be cut off by a whimper of pain from his friend. The sound shocked him, and he withdrew his hand as though burnt, startled at the awful cry that was so unlike the brawny man.

 

Licking his lips anxiously, Aramis tried again, this time refraining from touching as he asked, “Porthos, where are you hurt?” The seconds passed slowly as he waited for an answer, the silence between them filled only by Porthos’ harsh breathing. Finally, the large man lifted his face, his features twisted into a grimace of agony.

 

“My shoulder,” he gasped, and Aramis noted for the first time the way in which Porthos supported his left elbow in his other hand.

 

There was no obvious injury evident, and the marksman needed more information. Crouching down to the large man’s eye level he queried, “What happened?”

 

Closing his eyes for a moment while he swallowed thickly, Porthos reopened them to meet the marksman’s gaze as he answered. “I think it’s dislocated.” Taking another steadying breath, he added, “Bastard hits like a bear.”

 

Aramis allowed a slight upturning of his lips as Porthos’ response eased some of the worry constricting his chest. A dislocation would be a relatively simple matter to fix, but this was neither the time nor the place to tend to the injury. Instead, he would need to get the large man back to the garrison where he could offer something for the pain. Once the man’s muscles had relaxed from one of his special draughts, he would manipulate the arm back into position. That left the matter of restraining the injured limb to minimize the pain that movement would bring.

 

He reached for the sash at his waist, unwinding the material, which he would use as a makeshift sling. Reaching a hand out, he gently touched Porthos’ uninjured shoulder, waiting until the large man had made eye contact before speaking. “I’ll need to bind it so we can move.” He waited for a nod of acknowledgement before putting his words into action, ignoring the low grunts of pain that Porthos couldn’t contain.

 

A minute later the task was done, the blue sash snugly pinning the large man’s arm to his chest. Aramis swiped angrily at the sheen of sweat on his brow, reminding himself that of the two of them, his had been the easier role. Pushing aside his irritation at having caused his friend more pain, he asked, “Do you think you can get up?”

 

Porthos opened his eyes, having closed them again during Aramis’ ministrations, and gave another nod. It took both of them to get the large man to his feet, and he swayed dangerously once he was upright, the marksman bracing him until he regained his balance. “I’m good,” Porthos mumbled, and Aramis had to stop himself from snorting in disbelief.

 

Ducking beneath the large man’s uninjured shoulder, Aramis wrapped his other arm around Porthos’ waist, slowly moving him forward as he said, “We need to find a way down from here that you’ll be able to manage with just one arm.”

 

Porthos used his chin to indicate the building behind them. “There’s an easy access point on the other side of that roof. Can take the stairs inside all the way down to the street.”

 

Aramis merely shook his head at his friend’s knowledge of the rooftops, as he reminded himself that this was Porthos’ territory. The large man had grown up here, and was just as familiar with these rooftops as the marksman was with the women’s bodies he worshipped. As they made their way down and exited onto the street, Porthos asked, “Athos and d’Artagnan?”

 

The band of worry from earlier returned as Aramis admitted, “I don’t know.” Without discussion, they moved automatically in the direction that Bernier had fled, both men hoping it would lead them to their friends. The marksman could hear Porthos’ labored breathing as they walked faster than was comfortable for the larger man, but neither of them was willing to slow down, their pace fueled by their fear for their friends.

 

“No!” Athos’ voice reached their ears, which spurred them into an awkward run, Porthos gasping with each footfall as his shoulder was jarred. A minute later, the older man came into view and the marksman slowed their speed, aware that the larger man at his side was nearly spent. Moments later, they’d arrived at the former comte’s side, Aramis’ worry plain on his face as he asked, “Athos, what happened? Where’s d’Artagnan?”

 

Athos’ face was pale and his eyes were wide with shock. His gaze seemed fixed on a faraway point, and he seemed unaware of the other men’s presence. “Athos, are you alright?” Porthos tremulously asked, the other man’s condition enough to penetrate his pain-filled fugue.

 

After several more seconds of silence, Aramis leaned closer to peer into the older man’s face, noting the somewhat glazed look of his eyes. “I’m sorry for this, brother.” Before Porthos could question Aramis’ words, the marksman had lifted his free hand and slapped Athos across the face. The harsh sound of the impact seemed to echo around them as the medic waited for some sort of reaction.

 

Athos visibly startled and blinked several times, the shock of the strike bringing him back. Another moment passed before his gaze landed on Aramis’ frowning features. “Are you back with us now?” the marksman asked, forcibly pushing aside the panic that was threatening to take hold at his friend’s unusual state. “Where’s d’Artagnan?” he asked again, hoping Athos would finally be able to reply.

 

He watched as Athos’ gaze fixated on the same spot he’d been looking at before. Turning slightly, Aramis followed the older man’s line of sight, still unsure what they were looking at, but suddenly certain that he needed to move to that location. Preparing to slip out from underneath Porthos’ arm, he was surprised to find his shoulder tightly squeezed beneath his friend’s hand. “Don’t even think about leavin’ me behind,” his friend growled.

 

Wordlessly, Aramis began moving, idly noting that Athos had fallen into step behind them. They covered the distance quickly, despite Porthos’ pained gait, stopping when a tangled bundle of clothing came into view. “What the…” the large man began, breaking off when Aramis abruptly left his side to dash forward.

 

It had only taken a few seconds for the marksman to discern the men in the clothes that lay on the ground ahead of them. Bernier was facing them and Aramis swallowed down a surge of bile at the man’s lifeless eyes. Beyond the dead enforcer, he could see a full head of black hair, the Gascon lying limply next to his abductor’s still form. Where the criminal had fallen onto his back, d’Artagnan was on his stomach, and a closer look showed his hand still tangled in the other man’s arm as it had been before their fall.

 

“Oh, God, is he dead?” Porthos asked.

 

Aramis jumped, realizing only after the large man had spoken that his friends had joined him and were now standing on either side of him.

 

“No,” Athos said, his tone not brooking any argument. “He can’t be dead.” He turned to look meaningfully at Aramis, waiting for the man to agree, but the marksman couldn’t offer any guarantees.

 

“I’m sorry, Athos, but…” he began, seeing the older man’s face blanch at his words. “No, that’s not what I meant. I mean that I don’t know yet; I haven’t had time to check.” Aramis clarified. Athos’ eyes pleaded with him to put them all out of their misery, and the medic gave a slight nod before moving forward to check on their friend.

 

He walked around the splayed legs of both men, noting the awkward placement of Bernier’s that hinted at numerous broken bones. Grimacing, he knelt next to d’Artagnan, casting his eyes over the young man’s face and then down the length of his body, looking for any obvious signs of life or death.

 

The Gascon’s face was peaceful, his lax features seeming almost too relaxed to be alive, and Aramis found himself having to force the unwelcome thought from his mind. With a visibly trembling hand, he placed two fingers on d’Artagnan’s throat, praying for the telltale thrum that would signal life. He counted in Spanish in his head, automatically falling into his mother’s language as he sought out the comfort it provided. ‘Ocho, nueve, diez.’ The numbers flowed through his mind like water, and yet he could feel nothing but stillness beneath his hand.

 

Drawing a steadying breath, he pressed harder, closing his eyes and focusing all his attention on the spot where his skin met the Gascon’s. Beginning again, he prayed for a sign of life before he once more reached ten. ‘Cuatro, cinco, seis.’ He abruptly stopped counting as he felt a faint flutter, prompting him to exert more pressure, lest he’d been mistaken. The action elicited a weak cough from the young man, followed by a low groan, and Aramis’ eyes shot open at the sounds.

 

Looking up at his friends who’d held their earlier position, he announced, “He’s alive.”

 

His words had both men moving and soon d’Artagnan was surrounded. “How?” Athos asked, the wonder plain in his voice. Aramis met the older man’s gaze as he waited for more. “I saw him fall.”

 

The marksman shook his head, not wholly certain he could provide an adequate explanation either. Instead, it was Porthos who replied. “Heard about it happenin’ once when I was a wee one. Two men fell together while they were running away from the Red Guard. One died, but the other one walked away with barely more than bruises. Claimed he’d fallen on top of ‘is friend, and that was enough to break his fall.” He shrugged at the incredulous expressions on his friend’s faces. “Never really believed it at the time, but I don’t know of any other way to explain this,” he said as he pointed to d’Artagnan.

 

Aramis and Athos exchanged heavy looks, shaken by the knowledge of how close they’d come to losing the Gascon. “Regardless of how it happened, I don’t think d’Artagnan will be walking away from this,” the medic observed with a sigh, turning his attention back to assessing the young man.

 

Aramis had refused to move the young man in any way that might exacerbate his injuries, so Athos had taken it upon himself to drag Bernier away from the Gascon, unable to stand the criminal’s proximity to their friend. Once the marksman had confirmed that d’Artagnan was still alive, he’d fallen into complete medic mode, largely tuning out the rest of the world around him as he examined the young man.

 

Unbeknownst to him, Athos had set off to organize a cart, acknowledging that the Gascon’s injuries were grave enough to preclude any other form of travel. Porthos had stayed close to the other two, keeping curious onlookers away with a combination of harsh glares and the occasional stern word, recognizing that d’Artagnan would hate the attention he was currently drawing.

 

Within a half-hour, Athos had returned with a wagon filled with a layer of clean hay and several blankets. By then, Aramis had completed his cursory examination and determined that it was safe to try and move the still unconscious Gascon. With Athos’ help, the marksman settled d’Artagnan in the back of the wagon, with Porthos sitting at the young man’s side. It would be up to Aramis to get them both back, while Athos dealt with their horses, who were tethered several streets away.

 

As Aramis prepared to move out, he looked down at Athos’ troubled expression and said, “We can still detour and get the horses before we head back.” His tone was questioning, and he waited several seconds while Athos considered his offer.

 

“No,” Athos said, firmly shaking his head. He desperately wanted to go with his friends, but he would not be the cause of any further delays in his friends’ treatment. “You head back to the infirmary, and I’ll meet you there as quickly as possible.”

 

“Are you sure?” Aramis questioned, giving his friend once last chance to change his mind.

 

“Yes, I’m sure,” Athos replied, his words holding greater conviction than what was conveyed by his tone and expression. “Besides, I still need to make arrangements for the body.” He meaningfully glanced toward Bernier for a moment before returning his gaze to the marksman.

 

With a weary sigh, Aramis nodded, flicking the reins attached to the horses that pulled the wagon. As they lurched into motion, he forced his thoughts away from the friend he was leaving behind, focusing instead on everything he’d have to do to tend to the friends he was bringing to safety.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As though hearing the marksman’s plea, the Gascon groaned lowly, his head shifting slightly on the pillow that supported it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's been reading along, and to those who've left comments and kudos.
> 
> Special thanks to AZGirl for doing a very last-minute proofread for me, and still catching all of my silly mistakes.

Aramis frowned at the young man who had recently been placed on one of the infirmary beds. The two men who’d brought d’Artagnan in, and helped to carefully strip him of his doublet and boots, exited past the marksman who was too focused on the Gascon to do anything more than give them a distracted wave of thanks. Porthos occupied the next bed, and he was now observing Aramis with nearly the same intensity with which the marksman was observing d’Artagnan’s still form.

 

“You gonna check on ‘im?” Porthos asked.

 

“Hmm, yes, I will, but…” Aramis trailed off distractedly as he considered his options. On one hand, it would be best if he tended d’Artagnan as quickly as possible, but on the other hand, it would be difficult to identify what was wrong while the young man was unconscious. Noticing Porthos’ penetrating gaze as he waited for a response, Aramis said, “I simply think it might be easier if he was awake and could tell me where he hurts.”

 

The larger man nodded sagely before replying. “True, but what if there’s somethin’ that needs to be dealt with before he wakes up?”

 

Aramis’ face twisted in discomfort, bringing him back to his internal debate regarding whether to act or not. Sighing, he said, “I’m going to make a draught to help with the pain and relax you. Once it takes effect, I’ll be able to fix that shoulder.”

 

Porthos’ raised a questioning brow. “And d’Artagnan?”

 

“If he’s not awake by the time I’ve finished preparing your medicine, then I’ll tend to him regardless,” Aramis said, his tone tinged with resignation. “That will give the draught some time to properly take effect.”

 

Porthos nodded as he scooted back on his bed, positioning himself so he could rest against the wall. He placed the majority of weight on his right side, not wanting his aching left shoulder to have anything pressing back against it. Bracing his bound arm at the elbow once more, he watched as the medic moved around the room, unerringly gathering the items he required, before covering a selection of herbs with a small amount of hot water that had been brought in by one of the infirmary attendants.

 

Aramis brought the cup over to Porthos, setting it on a small stool next to the man’s bed. “Let that steep for a few minutes and then drink it all. It’ll make fixing your arm somewhat less painful – for both of us.”

 

The larger man grunted in reply, already dreading the bitter taste, but unable to argue against its effects. Looking around the room, he queried, “Physician not around today?” He knew that Aramis was doubting his ability to deal with d’Artagnan’s injuries, despite not yet knowing what they were.

 

Shaking his head, the marksman replied, “He’ll be gone for another three or four days; he’s with a group out on training exercises.”

 

Porthos gave a nod of acknowledgement, before motioning towards d’Artagnan with his chin. “Better get after it, then.”

 

Aramis gave a nearly silent sigh, reluctantly accepting that tending the young man couldn’t be delayed any longer. Removing his doublet, he draped it over the back of a chair, before rolling up his shirtsleeves. Pulling another stool from the corner of the room, he positioned himself at the Gascon’s right side, gently turning the young man’s face further towards him to examine the most obvious injury at the young man’s temple.

 

Regardless of how he’d fallen, d’Artagnan had clearly struck his head on something, the evidence of which had begun to darken the skin around his temple and cheekbone. A small trickle of blood had wound its way down the side of his face, and Aramis resisted the urge to wipe it away until he was done checking for other injuries.

 

He’d warred with himself about tending the young man, worried that he might be allowing precious time to pass while d’Artagnan suffered from some sort of life-threatening damage. At the same time, he’d feared that his poking and prodding might make something worse, and he’d desperately hoped that the Gascon would soon wake to provide some indication of where to find his hidden hurts. Unfortunately, Aramis found himself disappointed and still lacking critical information, with no other choice but to try and identify d’Artagnan’s injuries without his assistance.

 

Gently, Aramis worked his fingers into the Gascon’s hair, pressing and seeking any signs of shifting bones or blood that would suggest a skull fracture. Finding nothing, he moved down to the young man’s neck and then along his torso, firmly pressing against each rib in turn, and noting the grimace of pain that appeared on d’Artagnan’s face when he touched a tender spot on his right side. Lifting the young man’s shirt up, he checked for the presence of bruising, but found nothing of concern other than the exceptionally dark discolouration over the damaged ribs.

 

Letting the shirt fall back into place, the medic continued his examination by running his hands along both of d’Artagnan’s legs and arms, receiving another indication of pain when handling the young man’s right wrist. Pulling the sleeve up, the medic was greeted by the sight of a badly swollen joint, which thankfully appeared sprained, but not broken. It was becoming painfully apparent that the young man’s right side had taken the brunt of the fall.

 

Leaning back in his seat, Aramis found Porthos’ gaze firmly fixed on him, his expression expectant as he waited for some information about their friend. “Two, possibly three, ribs broken on his right side. His wrist is also painful, but the bone is intact. He hit his head, but I won’t know if he’s suffering a concussion until he wakes.” The medic glanced back down at the young man for a moment before admitting, “It’s possible that he has other internal injuries….” He trailed off and shook his head. “I really need him awake so he can tell me what hurts.”

 

As though hearing the marksman’s plea, the Gascon groaned lowly, his head shifting slightly on the pillow that supported it. Cupping the young man’s cheek with one hand, Aramis encouraged their friend to wake. “d’Artagnan, if you can hear me, I need you to open your eyes.” Another moan of discomfort escaped the Gascon’s slightly parted lips as he tried to roll his head away from the medic’s touch. Gently moving it back to its previous position, Aramis gripped d’Artagnan’s chin as he said, “None of that, now. I know you’re hurting, but I need you to wake up and tell me where and how badly.”

 

d’Artagnan’s eyelids fluttered, opening and closing several times before he finally succeeded in propping them up, although to Aramis’ practiced eye, it seemed that they might close again at any moment. “Can you tell me what hurts?” The medic prompted once more, determined to get some information from his patient before he lost his battle with unconsciousness.

 

d’Artagnan blinked slowly as he slurred, “Ev’rything.”

 

Though not unexpected, the answer was not at all helpful, and Aramis had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “I’m certain it probably feels that way, but what hurts the most?”

 

The Gascon’s eyes grew unfocused as he turned his attention inwards, and Aramis had to stop himself from impatiently repeating his earlier question. Nearly a minute passed before the young man’s gaze sharpened, and he focused once more on the medic at his side. “Head…wrist…ribs,” he replied, his left hand drifting upwards to his sore side.

 

Aramis caught his friend’s hand before it could land on the damaged ribs, guiding it back down to lay on the cot. “You’ve broken some ribs, and I’d advise against touching them.”

 

d’Artagnan’s brow furrowed in pain and confusion as he blearily stared at the marksman. “What happened to me?”

 

“You don’t remember?” Porthos asked, prompting the Gascon to let his head loll to the left towards the large man. d’Artagnan answered with a tiny shake of his head, letting out a soft gasp as the motion aggravated the pounding in his skull.

 

The medic’s hand was back, cupping the Gascon’s face as he breathed through the spike of pain. “Don’t do that,” Aramis murmured unnecessarily, the young man already making a note of the fact that any jerky motions should be avoided.

 

“We were chasing Bernier,” Porthos said, hoping his words would reawaken d’Artagnan’s memories.

 

The Gascon slowly turned to face the large man again, his eyes narrowing as his gaze landed on Aramis’ blue sash. “You’re hurt,” he stated, the concern obvious on his face despite his own discomfort.

 

Porthos had to stop himself from shrugging as he replied, “Nothing that hasn’t happened before.” He caught Aramis’ stern expression, recalling clearly that the medic had warned him that his shoulder would be more susceptible to this particular injury the more frequently it occurred.

 

Rather than berating his friend, Aramis indicated the cup next to Porthos’ bed. “Drink that so I can put your arm back into place before the swelling gets any worse.”

 

Grimacing, the large man wordlessly reached for the pain draught, taking a healthy swallow under the medic’s watchful gaze. Satisfied that the care of one of his patient’s was well in hand, Aramis turned his attention back to the Gascon. “d’Artagnan, does anything else hurt aside from what you’ve already mentioned?” As the young man drew breath to reply, the medic stopped him with a look. “Think carefully; this is important.”

 

Seeing the serious expression on Aramis’ face, the Gascon took several moments to consider how he was feeling, going to the extent of breathing more deeply, and flexing his arms and legs, before relaxing back into the support of the bed. “There’s nothing else, Aramis; just what I told you before.”

 

The medic let out a long sigh of relief, closing his eyes for a moment as his lips moved with an inaudible prayer. When he reopened his eyes, a smile alighted his face as he warmly looked upon the Gascon and said, “Thank God.”

 

The medic’s reaction surprised d’Artagnan, and he realized with a start that he had scared the marksman. Shifting his gaze to Porthos, he found Aramis’ expression mirrored there, and he swallowed thickly as he forced his mind to dredge up the events that had led to his injuries. He repeated Porthos’ earlier words to himself, pushing past the pain in his skull, which had turned his thoughts to molasses.

 

Suddenly, he startled, his entire body jumping as he recalled falling to the ground. “We fell,” he gasped, while Aramis easily pushed him back down against the mattress. The movement had reawakened his injuries, and left him panting with his eyes closed, as he fought to deal with the pain. When he managed to open his eyes, he found Aramis staring at him with unconcealed concern, prompting him to softly say, “Sorry.”

 

Gently squeezing the Gascon’s shoulder, the medic replied, “There’s no need to apologize, but I recommend not moving any more than necessary until I you’ve had something for the pain.”

 

d’Artagnan wasn’t any more of a fan of Aramis’ draughts than the others were, but he merely dipped his chin in agreement, for once welcoming the relief that the medicine would bring. At the young man’s response, the medic stood and moved to the other side of the room, collecting the second draught he’d made in anticipation of this exact situation. Retaking his seat next to the Gascon, he lifted d’Artagnan’s head so he could drink.

 

After several swallows, the young man pulled away from the cup, needing to take a break before drinking the rest. Catching the medic’s eye, he asked, “Have you ever seen a straw?” Aramis’ eyes twinkled with amusement at the odd question, while Porthos let out a short chuckle.

 

At the marksman’s nod, d’Artagnan continued, “It’s the most amazing thing, and very useful when one is hurt. Why don’t we have straws in the infirmary?”

 

Aramis grinned at the enthusiasm behind the young man’s question, while Porthos replied. “They are too expensive for us common soldiers.”

 

The marksman nodded as he added, “Perhaps they’ll eventually become a common item in everyone’s home, but I doubt it; they’re just too costly.”

 

d’Artagnan frowned at his friends’ responses, idly wondering if the straw he’d stuck into his doublet pocket had survived the fall. Before he could ask Aramis to check, the door to the infirmary was flung open, Athos following quickly in its wake. He crossed the distance between the entrance and the occupied beds, looking from the Gascon to Porthos, and back again, before throwing Aramis a questioning glance.

 

His lips quirking at the normally reserved man’s open worry, Aramis said, “Broken ribs, a sprained wrist, and” – he leaned forward a moment to check d’Artagnan’s pupils – “a hit to the head, but no concussion. A miracle, really.”

 

Athos nodded slowly, the weight of his relief resting heavily on his shoulders as his pounding heart finally began to slow. “Thank God.”

 

Porthos’ lips quirked slightly as he stated, “Seems to be a common sentiment today.”

 

Athos frowned in confusion at the large man’s statement, but Aramis interjected with a mock exasperated shake of his head. “It’s time I fix that shoulder of yours,” he said, rising from his seat. Porthos winced at the thought of having his arm reset, but he said nothing as the medic sat down at his hip.

 

Aramis threw a comment over his shoulder to Athos as he began to remove the blue sash from the large man’s torso. “Why don’t you keep our young friend company while I take care of this.”

 

Over the medic’s shoulder, Porthos could see that the older man had already taken the medic’s former seat next to d’Artagnan’s bed. With a smile on his face, he softly uttered to Aramis, “Looks like he already has.” Both men grinned knowingly for a moment at Athos’ concern for the Gascon, happy that their positions hid their expressions of satisfaction.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "When our young Gascon comes to the aid of a damsel in distress, he does so with ruthless efficiency.”

Athos sat next to d’Artagnan’s bed, staring at the young man at such length that the Gascon became uncomfortable. The older man was quiet, still as a statue, and the young man was finding the silence incredibly awkward. Licking his lips, he asked, “Are you alright?”

 

Athos frowned at the odd question. Of course, he was alright; why wouldn’t he be? He’d been on the very safe ground, not gallivanting recklessly along the sloped and slippery rooftops, high above the street. He wasn’t the one who’d first tangled with a bear of a man, before being pulled over the edge of a building to land on the hard cobblestones below. What a ridiculous question; of course, he was alright.

 

“Athos?” d’Artagnan’s tone was tremulous as he tried to get the older man’s attention. Rather than starting a conversation, his question had caused the former comte to get a faraway, and somewhat haunted, look in his eyes. “Are you alright?” he repeated, hoping that the man would answer this time.

 

Of course, I’m alright, Athos thought to himself, opening his mouth to voice his declaration out loud. “No, I’m not alright,” the older man said in a defeated tone, surprised for a moment by the words which had come out of his mouth, but privately acknowledging that he’d spoken the truth.

 

d’Artagnan’s brow was wrinkled with fresh worry lines, and Athos immediately felt bad for placing his burden on the younger man, especially since the younger man was already in pain. Shaking his head, he tried to refute his earlier statement, silently chastising himself for having blurted out the truth. “I meant to say, I’m fine; you’re the one who fought with Bernier and got hurt.”

 

The Gascon narrowed his eyes as he gazed up at the older man, noting the furrowed brow and the weariness that seemed to hang from his shoulders. While Athos might say he was fine, d’Artagnan believed the truth to be quite different. Taking a slightly deeper breath, he ventured a guess. “Were you worried about me?”

 

Athos’ gaze darted away, the older man immediately uncomfortable with the question that had been posed. For a moment, he felt the same panic from earlier surge as he contemplated how to respond. Should he answer that, yes, he’d been just a worried as the other two men, and that his concern was a product of the burgeoning friendship between them? Or should he remain aloof, denying the strong emotions he’d experienced when he’d believed d’Artagnan had fallen to his death, horribly certain that he would find the young man’s broken body splayed across the cobblestones?

 

“Athos,” d’Artagnan called softly, the older man’s continued silence beginning to scare him.

 

Clearing his throat, Athos brought himself back to the present, finally deciding on a combination of both sentiments as his response. “Any man in his right mind would be concerned after watching someone fall from such a height.” Hurt flashed momentarily across the Gascon’s face, but was gone so quickly that Athos could almost convince himself that he’d imagined it. Immediately feeling contrite, he stood abruptly, saying as he did so, “I need to get a cloth so I can clean that blood off your face.”

 

As soon as Athos mentioned the blood, d’Artagnan registered the itchy sensation of the dried substance along the side of his face. He considered discovering the source with his fingers until he remembered Aramis’ earlier admonishment to leave his injuries alone. Leaving both arms lying at his side, he watched as Athos found a clean cloth and wet it in a basin of water, before returning to dab at his temple and cheekbone.

 

The Gascon looked up at the older man, but Athos’ gaze was firmly fixed on the source of the blood. Wanting to erase the awkwardness between them, d’Artagnan said, “I’m sorry if I scared you earlier.” He waited for a response, but the older man remained focused on his task. “If our positions had been reversed, I would have felt the same way. You – all three of you – have become very good friends, and I would be devastated if something were to happen to you.”

 

Athos’ hand paused as he processed what he’d heard, the young man’s words capturing what he’d been unable to state himself. Relaxing minutely, he gave a short nod, finishing his task with far less intensity than before. When he’d finished, he met d’Artagnan’s gaze and announced, “That’s much better. Now that you’re presentable again, are you up for a visitor?”

 

The Gascon brightened immediately, even though he had no idea who might want to visit him. The expectant expression on the young man’s face made Athos’ lips quirk in a soft smile. “Given Madame Bonacieux’s concern over your abduction, and” – he glanced at Aramis for a moment – “her temper, I thought it best to advise her of your safe return. She insisted on accompanying me so she could see for herself that you were alright.” _Thank God, you’re alright_ , he thought to himself as he waited for the young man’s answer.

 

“Constance is here?” d’Artagnan said, his tone edged with disbelief that his landlady would be so concerned about his welfare. Pushing his surprise aside, he answered, “Yes. Do I look alright?”

 

Athos refrained from rolling his eyes as stood to collect the Gascon’s guest. “You look fine, _now that you’re not bleeding all over the place_.” The last part of his statement was said under the older man’s breath, reflecting the last remnants of his earlier fears. He crossed to the door and exited for a moment, before entering the room once more, this time leading a much-subdued Madame Bonacieux.

 

She looked around the room hesitantly, her eyes lighting up when her gaze landed on the injured Gascon. She took two hurried steps forward before stopping, her brain catching up with the sight before her as she processed the fact that her protector had been hurt. Moving forward again, this time at a more sedate pace, she hesitantly asked, “Are you alright?”

 

d’Artagnan winced as he rolled his eyes at the question. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

 

“Perhaps it has something to do with your spectacular fall from the roof of a building today?” Aramis posed innocently from Porthos’ bedside.

 

“You what?” Constance exclaimed, crossing the remaining distance to d’Artagnan’s bed and pinning him with a stern look.

 

d’Artagnan looked incredibly sheepish as he threw the marksman a dirty look, before locking eyes with his landlady. “It was nothing, Constance, and as you can see, I’m fine.”

 

She eyed him for several seconds before humming disbelievingly, but except for the bruising around the cut at his temple, and the fact that he was currently lying in bed, she could not see any other outward signs that he was about to expire. Grudgingly, she accepted his answer and asked, “What happened?”

 

“He took care of your financial problem,” Porthos stated, grinning with pride as he glanced at the Gascon.

 

Constance blushed at the comment, but didn’t dwell on it. “How can you be certain?”

 

“Because I saw Bernier’s body delivered to the morgue myself,” Athos responded dryly.

 

“He’s dead?” Bonacieux questioned in obvious surprise.

 

“Quite dead,” Aramis proclaimed with certainty. “When our young Gascon comes to the aid of a damsel in distress, he does so with ruthless efficiency.”

 

d’Artagnan winced both at the insinuation that Constance was in need of saving, and at that he’d intentionally set out to kill Bernier. Misinterpreting his expression, Madame Bonacieux replied, “Well, at least d’Artagnan has the good sense not to suggest I can’t take care of myself.”

 

Realizing his mistake, Aramis’ hand flew unconsciously to his cheek, vividly recalling the sting of the fiery woman’s last slap. Chuckling, Porthos came to his friend’s aid. “Actually, this time it was d’Artagnan who needed rescuing.”

 

Groaning, the Gascon remembered his earlier words, cringing as his predication was realized. Porthos’ comment caused Aramis to laugh, and even Athos managed a smile at the young man’s discomfort. When Constance frowned instead, the men quieted and the large man said, “Best we not tease our young pup too much while he’s injured.”

 

d’Artagnan’s features grew irritated as he rebutted, “Why do you keep calling me a pup? I’m really not that young, you know.”

 

Porthos snorted, while Aramis smiled at the comment. His annoyance growing at the men’s reactions, the Gascon declared, “I just turned nineteen.”

 

Aramis and Porthos exchanged surprised looks, but it was Athos who picked up on the significance of the young man’s declaration. “You didn’t tell us that it was your birthday.”

 

d’Artagnan’s gaze dropped as he realized what he’d divulged, his one hand picking uncomfortably at the blanket that covered him. Trading looks first with Athos and then with Porthos, Aramis fixed his eyes on the Gascon as he questioned, “Is that true, d’Artagnan?”

 

At the Gascon’s continued silence, Porthos interjected as he connected the dots, including the young man’s out-of-character drinking the prior night. “When we went out to the Black Crow; that’s why you drank so much.”

 

d’Artagnan gave a noncommittal shrug, neither confirming nor denying the large man’s conclusion. Softening his voice, the marksman asked, “Why didn’t you say something?”

 

“We would’ve celebrated properly,” Porthos added.

 

Another shrug accompanied the Gascon’s response. “It wasn’t that important…”

 

Athos interrupted, his tone firm but kind. “Of course, it was important, d’Artagnan.” Seeing the expression of scepticism on the young man’s face, he continued. “We are not merely brothers when on duty, but off-duty as well. You will need to learn that if you are to become one of us.”

 

The words warmed the Gascon and he nodded, unable to speak past the sudden lump in his throat. Wanting to dispel their friend’s discomfort, Porthos announced, “We’ll take you out to celebrate as soon as Aramis lets you out of that bed.”

 

“Once I let you both out of bed,” the marksman corrected with a knowing smile on his face. “But I agree – I can’t imagine that this is how you’d hoped to mark the occasion.”

 

Grinning shyly, d’Artagnan admitted, “This isn’t exactly how I’d envisioned a Paris birthday.”

 

“Don’t worry, we’ll make it up to you,” Porthos stated confidently. “Athos will even pay for the first round of drinks.”

 

The older man simply dipped his chin in agreement, a soft smile gracing his face for a moment before a memory struck. Reaching into his doublet, he withdrew an item, which he presented to the Gascon. “I found this on Bernier’s body, and I believe it belongs to you.”

 

On the palm of his hand lay the hairpin the Gascon had received from Milady. Athos had been surprised at the expensive nature of the item, but decided not to question the young man; after all, his affairs were his own.

 

“Actually,” d’Artagnan corrected, “that belongs to Constance.”

 

Athos’ brow rose as he wordlessly turned to the woman and presented the hairpin to her. “Thank you,” she mumbled, obviously uncomfortable for some reason unknown to the other men. She plucked the item quickly from Athos’ hand and tucked it into her bag. “Well, I really must be going,” she announced, turning her attention to d’Artagnan. “Now that I know you’re alright, I mean.”

 

The Gascon merely smiled as he said, “Thank you for coming to check on me.”

 

“When you think about it, I really had no choice. After all, how else was I to know whether or not I needed to find another tenant.” She glanced briefly at each of the men in turn, but no one contradicted her reasons for visiting. With a satisfied nod to herself, she turned and made her way to the door, pulling it firmly closed behind her.

 

No one spoke for several seconds, until Porthos yawned and declared, “I’m beat. Aiding a damsel in distress is tiring work.”

 

A chuckle building in his chest, Aramis corrected, “ _Two_ damsels, Porthos; we saved Madame Bonacieux _and_ d’Artagnan today.”

 

Laughter surrounded them as d’Artagnan groaned once more, even as he grinned at the good-natured banter, and eagerly anticipated the birthday celebration that would follow with his new friends.

 

End.

**Thanks for reading!**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Runner043 gave me a list of prompts, which I did my best to incorporate. I didn’t quite manage all of them, but hopefully I squeezed in enough to make this a satisfying read. Hope you enjoyed your birthday fic!
> 
> Story prompts:
> 
> Set in season 1, between 'Slight of Hand' and 'A Rebellious Woman'.   
> \- d'Artagnan is not yet commissioned   
> \- has no income from his farm, nor the Musketeers   
> \- still living at the Bonacieux house   
> \- Constance is still in that 'yearning for adventure' phase  
> \- d'Artagnan still thinks of her as just kind and wonderful 
> 
> I’d like Constance included - maybe a backstory/sub-plot kind of thing. 
> 
> d'Artagnan confronts the guys about calling him; pup, kid, or any other term about his age - would like to see him get mad about it
> 
> Aramis gets bonked on the head and can only speak in Spanish. This drives Porthos nuts and is so funny! 
> 
> A straw. 
> 
> If someone is to get hurt what about either Constance or Milady.
> 
> Please have Constance slap Aramis again. 
> 
> Since my favorite character, Porthos, is notably always with his bandana, can you squeeze in a scene where he is without it for some reason? Perhaps even that Aramis has Porthos' bandana in his possession while Porthos has Aramis' blue sash that he is know for? 
> 
> Athos' comment to Milady about not liking England's food (S2E10) seemed to bug me for some reason…it just seemed like an out-of-context comment from him. Do you think you could work something into the story to take care of that?
> 
> I'd like it if d'Artagnan was mad at Athos, and for a very legitimate reason.


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